A Stricken Lament
by Muffliato
Summary: Butchered unicorns in London's alleys, witches and wizards vanishing throughout Britain, and murmurs of a rising Dark Lord! With all of this, Senior Auror Ron Weasley can't believe Harry thought it a grand time to take a desk job. He'd always known the bloke was barmy, but embracing bureaucracy? —Auror mystery, Harry-Ron friendship, and canon ships.
1. A Hinkypuff's Lead

**A/N:** Thank you Gambitized for the shiny new story summary!

Ron Weasley may be the most criminally underutilised character in fanfiction. Poor Won-Won, getting sidelined into Hr/R fluff pieces if he's lucky or bash!Weasley fics if he's not. It's almost overlooked these days that, in canon, _Ron_ was the Samwise Gamgee to Harry's Frodo Baggins. _Ron_ was Harry's best mate, not Hermione (as wonderful as she is). _Ron_ was the bloke who happily took in another brother. No bouts of jealousy, big or small, can change that.

I crave Ron-Harry friendship fics like nothing else. But as they're hella rare I figured I'd write my own…one with an Auror mystery to boot, as this is another fic trope that deserves far more love. To backtrack and emphasis? I said Ron-Harry _friendship_ (read: platonic bromance). Not that I'm opposed to reading slash, but in this fic the happy marriages are H/G and R/Hr.

Also, this first chapter is written in a radically different style than the rest of the story (it has next to no dialogue and isn't primarily from Ron's point of view). If that puts you off, I can only ask that you please give the second chapter a try before setting aside this fic!

 **Warning:** This story has a darker tone than my other writings. If you can't stomach crime sprees, swearing, and possible major character death, I'd stop reading now.

 **General Disclaimer:** Though this fic is a mix-mosh of _Harry Potter_ and _Sweeney Todd_ (with a touch of _A Casual Vacancy_ tossed in), I could only wish to approach Rowling's or Sondheim's extraordinary magic…or, you know, cannibalism. I'm not making a knut from this, though I am taking any and all donations of pies.

* * *

"'I have sailed the world, beheld its wonders

From the Dardenells to the mountains of Peru,

But there's no place like London! I feel home again.

I could hear the city bells ring, whatever I would do.

No, there's no place like London.'"

—Anthony Hope, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

Charlotte Fawcett was an unremarkable face striding through Hogsmeade. It was early enough that dawn had barely touched the village, where light brimmed over rooftops and had just begun to trickle down. Shopkeepers and employees strolled in, speculating the grey clouds with yawning faces. Still-burning lanterns lining the main street cut through the morn's dew, illuminating enough to cast the scattered wizards and witches in shadow. It was peaceful, rather than eery. Calm. A time to woolgather.

Lottie was as tranquil (or as tired) as the rest of the early risers. She did look a touch more put together than the others. Still, few paid her mind. Even at the peak of day she would have been overlooked. Pretty in a non-imposing way, she was a dimpled and cheery girl who had more friends than admirers. The only thing typically striking about her was a long mane of blonde, wispy hair, that bounced off her shoulders and got in the way of everything.

But these curly locks had recently been cut and were currently smushed under a thickly knitted beret. So—with this, her casual outfit, and the day's fog—this morning she blended into the musky background. Anyone who did spot her mainly noted her overflowing, colourful bag. Yet more noticed the blooming daffodils nestled between the opening shopfronts, or the few raindrops leaking from the sky.

Lottie didn't mind this. She was busy enough yawning and musing about the upcoming work day. Batting the bag against her leg, she felt the wind against her arms and grumpily pulled at her hat so it didn't fall off. The ends of her hair were flicked as she tugged at the bob.

She was still in mourning for her long tresses, a casualty to a malfunctioning invention that had dyed her lower locks a vibrant blue. But the hair was a small sacrifice to be an up-and-coming inventor in a top company. She found it remarkable to have this job only a year after leaving Hogwarts. Her mum was still getting gleeful, gloating reminders about the substantial salary. She felt a bit guilty for doing this, but not that often. After spending her childhood being snapped at that her immature behaviour would only lead to utter unhappiness, it was gratifying to prove the woman so wrong. Bitter? She? Perish the thought.

As her dad tried to hide his snickers whenever Lottie smugly pointed out her newest pay raise, she figured making her mum's face steadily redder couldn't be that awful. At least her success was lessening the screaming matches.

"Spare a sickle?" a wrinkled woman in a dusty, abundantly layered dress thrust her hand up to stop Lottie. The latter's thoughts scurried away.

"Sorry," the younger witch murmured, side-stepping. "Have nothing on me."

"A few knuts?" the beggar tried again, her shawl unraveling enough for the end to waggle in an imitation of its owner's hand.

Lottie turned away and continued forward, muttering another apology which went unheard. She adjusted the hold on her bag, fidgeting until the voice had stopped from behind her.

Her nervous thoughts drifted back to the upcoming work day. This was her first time presenting a solo project. Though it was a reinvention of an existing project, the Skiving Snackboxes, the old ones were outdated and she'd gone about fixing them almost entirely by herself. She hoped her boss would recognise the progress she'd made. Maybe it would create an opportunity to share some of her own inventions…so long as she didn't screw up her chance.

Lottie let out a slow breath, telling herself to calm down. She blinked up at the one or two light drops from the gridlocked clouds, trying to relax. She needed to smell the mallowsweet, like her dad always said. She bit back a snigger at the thought. As a little girl she'd had no idea about mallowsweet's hallucinogenic properties, or its reputation, or why her mum would scowl whenever the phrase was uttered. That the drug was now residing in her new and improved Snackboxes only made the sentiment funnier.

The lanterns had begun to turn themselves off, being replaced by the rising sun as Lottie plodded down the street. She wondered if maybe she ought to slip some mallowsweet to her boss. Technically illegal, but it'd put him in a chipper mood for her project proposal. Maybe she should just offer him some? Knowing George Weasley, he'd snigger at her nerve. He might even take some. Odder things had happened.

Passing by The Three Broomsticks she wondered if she even had any of the drug left, having used most of it on the Snackbox trials. There might be some on her work desk? She'd check when she got in, because surely offering Mr. Weasley the substance wouldn't make him mad. So long as she was funny about it, that is. Maybe she should to nab some Filibuster Fireworks to let loose during her presentation. A grand finale, of sorts. It wasn't even technically illegal, which was one up on the mallowsweet.

Mind made up, Lottie quickened her pace. If she wanted to grab the fireworks ('Were there fireworks in the shop?' she mused before snorting to herself. 'Of course there are, don't be silly.'), she'd have to hustle to be first in. Because now that she thought about it, she really did need an element of surprise for this presentation. Catching people by surprise could only ever help. That was why she'd snuck her way into Ravenclaw, and she was quite proud of how well that had turned out. No one would suspect the mousy bookworm of turning all the Hogwarts teachers into flamingos, after all.

She gave a breathy laugh. Her bag bounced as she smiled with a confidence she almost felt. This was only a presentation, she'd do fine. Mr. Weasley was already singing her praises and calling her 'a kindred spirit', so unless she royally screwed up she was home free. Even if she did mess it up, her boss was the forgiving type. He'd likely just cackle and set that mad batch of pygmy puffs on her, saying it was a 'learning experience' or such nonsense. If it turned sour, Angelina would surely give her a hand. That, or set loose even more puffs and join the fun.

It had begun to properly rain, the sparse sun having already disappeared into pouring droplets. A new chill spun over her skin. Tucking her hood up Lottie considered casting a small shield spell, but dismissed this. She was close to the shop, no need to fumble for her wand. Not when she was already lugging her large bag.

Walking again down the street, she kept her eyes down to avoid the rain. Because of this, she failed to see that the few people she passed made detours around her. She didn't note the gazes sliding past the notice-me-not charm now fluttering about her skin. Most critically, she remained ignorant of the wand extending from the invisibility cloak mere feet behind her.

As she turned a corner and the colourful Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes came into view, she stiffened. A moment later she'd crumpled to the ground, bag spilling out around her. Blind panic spiked through her thoughts: she couldn't move! No one was stopping! _Why weren't they stopping? WHY COULDN'T SHE MOVE!_

Lottie could no more scream for help than stop a potion from being poured between her numb lips, two strange fingers plucking her mouth open. Another hand (just a hand, the fingers, and the emptying vial—nothing else was visible, even though her teary gaze wasn't blurred) tilted her head back and rubbed her throat, forcing the liquid to be swallowed.

She silently shrieked. Howled for help. Tried to wrench around and spit out the potion…all useless. She could barely blink, let alone bite down on the damn fingers ('Thick fingers, a man's? Oh god, what's happening!') only now leaving her frozen lips.

It was as though time had halted. The panicking girl felt nothing unusual from the potion, just the smooth, hot liquid gushing inside her. She didn't know what was going on, but that didn't stop her from internally screaming at the psycho who'd done this. She hoped with everything she had that the potion (was it a potion?) hadn't worked. Because the only change was a warmth in her belly, one that was spreading to her limbs. Though unsettling, it didn't hurt. But it was doing something.

 _Why wasn't anyone stopping!_

'Oh Circe,' Lottie panicked, the true situation creeping up on her through strangled thoughts. 'I can't move! I swallowed a potion! Someone's attacked me and…Merlin, what does he want? Not, not rape? No, don't be stupid, it's a potion. To hurt me? Control me—oh god, _is that why I can't move!?_ ' She desperately tried to calm down. 'No, no no no. The paralysis came before the potion. Why'd someone want to control me? Stupid. More likely it's to ki—'

Lottie stabbed that last thought away, hyperventilating through her frozen muscles. Using all her strength to frantically keep from a blind panic, she turned her gaze as much as she could, trying to thrash…to no result. By now she'd reluctantly concluded she was in a body-bind. A strong one, at that. Though people were passing her, nobody took a second glance. She wasn't sure if desperate tears trailed down her face or if it was the rain. 'An invisibility cloak? Has the twat turned me invisible? A notice-me-not? Why oh why didn't I grab my wand! _What the hell was that potion!_ '

Because her stomach was hurting. It had started as a cramp, as though her muscles had been stretched too thin after a run. But it rapidly became much worse. In seconds? Minutes? Hours? She didn't know, but it felt like her breakfast was being ripped to shreds, pounding against her sides. As the pain spiked and her thoughts too began to ache, she blearily wondered (as though this was happening to someone else, anyone else) if it was the muscles themselves being torn loose. She didn't know, no longed cared. She couldn't curl into a ball or cry out with whatever breath was left in her lungs. Because the tearing was now in her throat, gagging and bubbling. She was barely aware of the contents of her stomach ('As well as the potion? Please, please let the poison be boiling out') choking her mouth, covering her teeth with spew.

Nor did Lottie notice the invisible man tilting her head to the side, allowing the bile to spill down onto her skin, hair, and the pavement. This barely reopened her airways for, with these barriers gone, the ripping and pulling continued with gusto. She didn't notice her bag being taken, or her coat patted for her wand. She never saw the consideration with which the experimental Skiving Snackboxes were received. Instead, she wished she was still choking. For now it was as though her insides had turned to putty, every struggled breath twitching an avalanche of things loose within her. But it also seemed to be shrinking, everything within her growing smaller.

Something snapped and she lost her sight. She never knew that her eyeballs rolled loose within their sockets, unseeing as the skin rippled and became inflamed. Hairs plucked up across gooseflesh follicles, bubbling like polyjuice. Her vocal chords had long since been displaced into a churning, liquid organ, rearranging itself like the rest. Her tongue lagged uselessly, colliding against a mouth and teeth and lips that were twisting with poison.

As a final fire pierced and contorted her body, every whimper had long since been wrenched away. Unable to cry, shriek, or lose consciousness, Lottie's last coherent thought was a silent plea to be hit with _avada kedavra_.

She would give anything for a painless death.

* * *

London was having a rare burst of fair weather. The atmosphere around its streets was as far from the glum Firth of Forth storm as could be. With the strange appearance of blue skies, the city had emptied out onto the pavements. It wasn't that an early London Summer couldn't be filled with light, but this blast of sun had emerged from a straight month of merciless rain and wind. What remained was merely a faint, refreshing breeze.

Parts of the city thus found themselves bursting at the seams. It was near impossible to enter Trafalgar Square, South Bank overflowed with buskers and tourists, the packed Westminster Bridge was a shove away from a domino effect into the Thames, and every local worth their salt avoided these places like the plague. In addition, most of the residents were more bewildered than thrilled at the clear skies. They even found themselves hesitating to go to Hyde or St. James' Park; not because of the crowds, but in the fear that enjoying the sunlight would jinx the lovely weather away.

The magical Londoners were likewise confused at the sunny sky. Some were convinced that the day had _already_ been hexed (ignoring the small fact that altering the weather was so difficult it was near legendary). As an off-season Quidditch match was set to take place in Regent's Park, more than a few whispered that it was being rigged. This was because the Holyhead Harpies were the underdogs in the game, and the Keeper for the opposing Tutshill Tornados was Elizabeth Szilvassy, the first part vampire in the league. That this match was taking place practically in the backyard of one Ginny Potter, ex-Chaser for the Harpies, was also greatly remarked upon.

These gossipers would have been surprised (as well as unconvinced) that Ginny had nothing to do with the sunny weather. Or that she was wholly unaware this game was even taking place. In fact, when she found out after the fact, she was peeved her old teammates hadn't mentioned they'd be in the park across the way from her townhouse. Said teammates would soon mollify her with a cheery visit, bearing gifts of apology biscuits (triple chocolate and caramel, thank you very much) and baby clothes.

Whatever the case, as Ginny was busy touching up an article she didn't see much of the sun. Nor, on that note, did her husband, whose day was far less enjoyable and stress free. Indeed, Harry Potter had been having a bad few weeks at work. If prodded, he'd snap that it had been a bad few months, and that it was entirely his so-called best friend's fault. If pushed further, he'd darkly remark that the prat had likely spelled the weather to rub his face in being stuck indoors, having to deal with screaming Howlers and nonsense lawsuits.

In contrast to the Potters, Ron Weasley wasn't about to complain about his morning. Not that he was having a grand time. The day had started not with a blast of sunshine through the window, but with Rosie's dulcet cries ringing out before dawn. This was such a common occurrence that he'd begun using her as an alarm clock. Luckily, the little girl was easily pacified. So with a hummed lullaby, the shrieks had subsided into giggled murmurs: much to her sleepy father's relief.

At breakfast, Hermione had been distracted while feeding Rosie with worrying she'd catch Crookshanks' cold. Ron hadn't the faintest what she was on about, until he'd been succinctly 'reminded' that this could be horrid for the foetus. That is, according to the numerous parenting books stacked in their living room.

Ron was of the opinion that most of these barmy books belonged in the fireplace. He'd have happily chucked them in himself, if not for the knowledge that his wife would view this as an unforgivable blasphemy. Moreover, in her mind-set, the crime of even slightly scorched texts validated an Azkaban sentence. Seeing as how she was already fretting about Crookshanks and annoyed with Ron for his part in 'giving her' morning sickness, he wasn't about to risk it.

Still, he was tired of the parenting advice. His mum's nagging was enough, he didn't need a bunch of books bothering him as well. Most importantly (as he tickled a gleefully clapping Rosie, getting a sigh from Hermione as their daughter spilled her mushed carrots to the floor), he felt they were doing a pretty good job without any of that rubbish. They were excellent parents! Came naturally, he thought, and they were so brilliant it was all a piece of cake.

As Ron headed off to the Ministry (though first the Burrow, to drop off Rosie with her delighted grandparents), he wondered if he ought to vanish the offending books when Hermione wasn't looking. When she noticed they were missing, he could always say Rosie had a burst of accidental magic and turned them all invisible. Or—if the genius witch didn't buy that a toddler was behind it—he'd blame George or Harry. Maybe both. Probably both.

With all of this, he almost forgot that his newest Auror partner was a pigheaded idiot and that his boss was being a passive aggressive git. He also didn't spend much time considering the work day, as he'd just wrapped up a case and would probably be on consulting. Still, none of that meant he was going to complain about his day. With his long history of seeing things go from bad to horrifying, he'd learned to never wonder if things could get any worse.

The silver lining? It truly was a beautiful, sunny day.

* * *

"'There's a hole in the world like a great black pit,

and the vermin of the world inhabit it

and its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit

and it goes by the name of London. […]

I too have sailed the world and seen its wonders,

For the cruelty of men is as wondrous as Peru.

But there's no place like London!'"

—Sweeney Todd, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

 **A/N:** Though this story is canon compliant (more or less), there's at least one big exception. I know Rowling's said that Ron quit being an Auror after a few years to work with George. But for the sake of this fic, I'm ignoring that interview and going with purely book canon (which leaves his profession wide open). Also, as the tale progresses things will get…odd. Dark odd. So this might be EWE. Can't say, sorry. Spoilers? Of the 'possible major character death' type? Don't say I didn't warn you!


	2. A Unicorn's Tail

**A/N:** Thank you for the wonderful response to the first chapter!

Doug Dawlish is introduced in this chapter—nephew of John Dawlish, canon Auror. Assume that he followed his Uncle into the 'family business'.

 **General Disclaimer:** Sue me and I'll sic Fluffy on you! (But no, seriously, please don't sue me)

* * *

"'It is important,' Dumbledore said, 'to fight, and fight again, and keep fighting, for only then could evil be kept at bay, though never quite eradicated.'"

—Albus Dumbledore, _Harry Potter and the_ _Half-Blood Prince_

* * *

The Ministry Atrium was as bustling as ever. Crowds of arriving workers hurried through the courtyard, their faces buried in parchments or chatting into two-way mirrors. A small but growing group was huddled up, cheering at the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Lately, departments were taking it in turns to charm to stone (or vandalise the stone, depending on the culprit). Magical Games and Sports had set a high bar this week, modifying the statues into a lively Quodpot match. The current round was 'fur vs. skin', with the figures leaping over each other (as well as the boundaries of the fountain) to avoid the exploding Quod.

A Ministry maintenance crew, though standing around the fountain, was too busy placing bets on the match to be concerned with returning the statues to normal.

The Weasleys walked from the red telephone box entrance into this fiasco. Neither thought much of it, used to far stranger sights. Hermione did pause to inspect a grumpy 'out' player, a frowning and drenched banshee (who gave a small yet gut-clenching shriek as her stone Veela teammate attacked the pot and grabbed multiple Quods). But Ron found himself distracted by something else. 'Distracted', meaning that an origami memo hit him dead-on in the face.

This attack didn't hurt (denting the paper more than his nose) but he doubted it was a good sign. Not only were these memos supposed to harmlessly land in the receiver's hand, but they were usually in the shape of cranes or owls. That this one was folded up as a Golden Snitch—and had aimed straight between his eyes—spoke mounds.

Hermione turned from the screaming statues to her husband as he unfolded the note. She gave a wholly unsurprised sigh. "What did you do now?"

"Who says I did anything?" Ron said, walking past the fountain and dodging a hurdled Quod ball. He snapped the note open to straighten it out.

"A Snitch just smacked you. It's rather obvious," she stated. They carefully avoided the leaping statues, sprays of water, and vaguely panicking workers as they headed to the Ministry. "Could you not go out of your way to annoy him? It's getting old. Tiring as well. Did you know he spent all of lunch yesterday complaining about you? An entire hour, barely without pause. I did get his salad since he was too distracted to eat, but still."

"Hm mmm?" he gave a non-answer, reading the parchment.

"He _begged_ me to get you to stop. Can you imagine? Yes, he's being overdramatic, but if you—you— _choo!_ Do you hear me?" Hermione tried to hold back a sneeze. She made a face as they entered the main doors, heading to the lifts, "Dratted kneazle. But listen, I know you're taking all of this hard. I'm sympathetic, I am. But can you see it from Harry's perspective? It's bad enough dealing with a new job without—"

"He's not pissed off," Ron cut in. Though Hermione looked askance at him, she was more irritated at another sneeze escaping her. "Gesundheit. But yeah, the note's not bad. Just saying I'm consulting on that creatures' case today."

"Thank you," she waved a hand in front of her as he jabbed their button on the lift. "The note tried to break your nose! I don't care what it says, Harry's annoyed. Which means he'll keep bothering me," she paused and frowned, the other words hitting her. "That case? Don't tell me there's a new body."

"Another unicorn," Ron scrunched up the note, sticking it in his pocket. All mentions of Harry were promptly and happily ignored. "Found in Leicester, so yeah. Same case."

"Heavens," Hermione looked stricken. She glared at the elevator's closed doors as though this would speed up things. "Dratted rush hour, I've got to get up there! Is there any more information?"

"Nice and vague, only that Lisa's still leading," he pulled out his wand. "Info's in the office for Dawlish and me."

She was now tapping her foot, the lift still refusing to open, "When I think there's a day with nothing worse than a lecture on Death Eaters, this case pops back in! Press aside, I can't believe someone could be this heartless. Oh, wait, Ron! Don't you dare appar—" her quick spin to her husband allowed her to have a final glance of his smirking grin before he disappeared with a _Pop!_ , "ate. Within the Ministry. Again."

Hermione gave a world-weary sigh, cursing Ron, cursing Harry, and cursing her disease-prone pet. A loud sneeze escaped her as the lift finally rumbled open. Swallowing back an itchy cough, she strode forward and grabbed a handrail. As it took off she wondered how blissful it would be to have enough spare time to even think about doing something as pointless as enchanting a fountain.

Though, if this week turned out to be as frustrating as she expected, she might start tossing exploding Quods herself.

* * *

After a _Pop!_ to Auror offices, (cheerfully taking the case's documents from a stormy Harry, shouting out a "Hurry up!" to Doug Dawlish lounging in the break room, glancing at the map, then taking another _Pop!_ with the file in hand) soon enough the Ministry had vanished around Ron.

Apparating to an empty alleyway, he landed with more force than he'd meant to. Taking a few quick steps forward to keep his balance, he paused to catch his breath. This only took a moment before he straightened up.

A minute passed. Ron crossed his arms impatiently.

Another minute.

Ron caught himself taking a speculative look around him. When he realised he was doing this he abruptly stopped, annoyed at himself for expecting his partner to follow right after him. Because the alleyway was still empty. He'd guess Dawlish would be at least another ten minutes. Or was it twenty? More than that if he didn't hurry. Chances were, he was still in the break room.

He stared at the dirty bricks of the London flats, crinkling his nose in thought. How long did it take to get from Auror offices to an 'officially designated' apparation point? He felt he really ought to know this. But, as he'd not bothered with the long detour since he was in training, he hadn't the faintest. There wasn't much point to it, he felt, as the ban on direct apparations was a pretty stupid rule. He'd bet it only came about by mixing bureaucratic red tape with the rumour that the Ministry wards would make mincemeat of any apparators. Or maybe someone other than Hermione knew it was impossible to apparate in Hogwarts and assumed the same principle applied here? Whatever the case, he thought it a ridiculous waste of time.

Yes, apparation was allowed in emergencies. More than that, Ron understood it'd generally be a bad idea for everybody to know they could pop in and out of most public Ministry areas. But these were Aurors he was talking about. Most of the time they were going to a case or hospital: fairly time-sensitive stuff, if you asked him.

So he'd long ago stopped bothering with the ten or twenty (thirty?) minute useless detours. Whenever he needed to apparate, he apparated. Hermione could lecture him on safety protocols and potentially iffy wards as much as she wanted, but he felt the proof was in the pudding. Had he splinched himself? Were the Ministry wards glitching? No? Brilliant, he'd keep doing it.

Harry was also annoyed with this habit. Ron thought that was a bit rich, seeing as how his best mate had been the poster child of maverick rule breaking. Or that the 'Man Who Conquered' had been who'd originally ranted about the apparation policy.

Still, Harry's annoyance more likely stemmed from Ron's habit when they were partners to _pop!_ out mid-sentence without a by-your-leave. Ron didn't see why this had been so bad, as Harry would always follow him a few seconds later (disgruntled or no).

But now, stuck with a new partner more wary of breaking Ministry by-lines, he found himself missing the days where the worst he had to put up with was Harry's moodiness at the lack of warning. Or Robards' half-hearted attempts to make him follow every procedure. Because now he was stuck waiting for his partner to find 'a safe, designated apparation point' to leave the Ministry. Stuck here on this empty street. Staring at dumpsters, already bored, and knowing the crime scene was mere blocks away.

Ron huffed. Coming to a decision, he strode down the alley towards Leicester Square. As he had time and again in the past few months, he made the executive decision that an Auror rule was utter bollocks. Because while it was fine and dandy to have your partner by you, he was willing to make the sacrifice and go it alone. Especially since he was heading to where another Auror team was waiting and had already ensured the scene was safe.

The Head Auror would be cranky when he heard he'd abandoned another partner. But Ron was sure he'd get over it. If not, a stop at a bakery to grab some treacle tart would smooth things over.

The Senior Auror considered this, striding towards the crime scene. Maybe he ought to lead with the tart and distract any lectures from the get-go? Then, if Harry still seemed incensed, Ron could try laying on the guilt. Even if it hadn't worked out wonderfully last time…

* * *

 _"Why're you mad? Dennis' happy and he was the one sprayed with Amorentia."_

 _"Which happened because he walked in the wrong shop!" the Head Auror seemed close to either hexing Ron, or hexing himself to put him out of his misery. "Because you, yes you, did that stupid apparation thing. Plus, this time you took the maps with you! Who even does that?"_

 _"I accidentally grabbed both folders, big whoop. Dennis learned a valuable lesson: always keep up," Ron nodded to himself, discarding the other wizard's bewilderment. "So he snogged some Veelas. Fella's scratched up but, when I saw him last, he was grinning ear to ear."_

 _"Not the point," Harry rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up to do so. "This is your fifth partner in as many months and now Creevey's fiancé wants him reassigned. She sent me three Howlers about you!"_

 _"Mite overkill."_

 _"I don't care! That's right, I'm beyond caring," Harry said, frustration shining through. "Why can't you work with someone without it being a mess?"_

 _"Eh, not my fault they aren't up to it," Ron shrugged. "S'not like I hate them, I just don't coddle them. I'm not going to narrow my standards and settle for some mediocre trainee. Come on, I've more than proven I don't need a partner."_

 _"You need a partner!" Harry instantly retorted._

 _"Nope, don't," Ron said flippantly._

 _"You're such a git," the Head Auror gritted out between his teeth. "'Narrow your standards'? If you deflated your head then maybe, wonder of wonders, you could work with someone."_

 _"Not what I meant."_

 _"Then what is it!"_

 _"I meant," Ron emphasised, sending the other man a pointed look, "that my standards are high. Your fault, mate._

 _Harry stared at him. His head then inclined back with a groan, "You. Stupid. Git."_

* * *

Which was when Ron had been assigned Doug Dawlish, legacy brat extraordinaire. He wasn't sure if this was a punishment or a convoluted way to 'get him to see reason'. He'd bet the latter, it was Harry's sort of thing. Dawlish was irritatingly by the books and desperately needed to learn some spontaneity (as well as how to get his head out of his arse). It would be just like his brother-in-law to hope the two of them would even each other out. Impart some much needed lessons, or such nonsense. But as far as Ron was concerned, he wasn't having any of that. Especially if Dawlish couldn't be bothered to show up in a timely manner to the crime scene.

Or maybe Dawlish and he had gotten so annoying Harry had chucked them together in hopes that one would finish the other off. That also sounded like something the bloke would do. Ron would be vaguely more amenable to this option.

* * *

The unicorn was splayed out next to a fountain. Both were in the centre of a small courtyard surrounded by theatres and souvenir shops, banners announcing sales shouting from the walls. Fast food joints were also scattered throughout, with muggles milling around. The people looked vaguely at the trees and the closed off area, before losing interest and turning to one of myriad stands selling discounted play tickets.

The fountain was the opposite of extravagant. In contrast to the Ministry's grand marble silhouette, this had no figures of statues, not even a large basin for the water. Here, water sprouted out of holes in the ground like a garden sprinkler. The sprays were synchronised into patterns, all carefully engineered to stop just short of soaking the benches surrounding it. Water still spewed out of the ground and dampened the area around the corpse, but a few containment spells meant that it was no longer washing any potential evidence away. Ron felt bile rise up his throat at the sight. Never had he been happier to be assisting on a major case rather than leading it outright.

Clearly Lisa Turpin didn't share this sentiment, seeing as how she'd gotten the rotten end of the deal. From her ashen expression and nervous twists of her short brown hair, he guessed that if he offered to take over this case she'd agree in an enthusiastic heartbeat. Solely because of this, he was tempted to make the offer. But with the state of this body, he doubted he'd be able to stomach the investigation any better.

That wasn't to say that Senior Auror Turpin didn't know what she was doing. Two other Auror teams had already ducked out, too anxious or overwhelmed by this gruesome case with its infuriating lack of leads. But Lisa was pragmatic and stubborn until the last. She was the sort of person who made a habit of dismissing the gory surface to get at the pivotal details or simplest solution.

Case in point, Lisa's only training duel with Harry had begun and ended with a prompt, " _Accio glasses!_ " Because of this, she'd become MLE legend, Ron had gotten a new batch of blackmail photos, and Harry had become a mite paranoid about security charms on his spectacles.

But even Lisa was queasy today, standing next to without quite looking at the brutalised unicorn. She was still faring better than her partner, Kevin Entwhistle, who was a nice chap but had a soft stomach. Ron could make out his coat and heaving shoulders amidst some bushes circling the benches.

Taking another uneasy glance at the unicorn, Ron wondered if he'd soon be joining Kevin. He was happy he'd been so distracted by Rosie that he'd had a light breakfast. But even the thought of food set his mind on an unwanted path. A reminder—a nudge—as to why this unicorn seemed weirdly familiar. It took him a moment to recall, before remembering it'd happened a few years back when he'd visited Charlie in Romania. The tour of the reserve had included where they prepared the dragons' food. Entire cows, rows of horses…the sight was a mite much for even a carnivore like himself. But what made him recall this scene now was the dozens of hanging pigs that would be little more than snacks for the dragons. They'd been cut in half, hooked to rods around the wall, and left to dry. Charlie had also been a tinge queasy, but swore they'd been put down in quick, painless ways.

This unicorn hadn't been as lucky. Still, the end result was similar. The space between the ribs from its neck to its tail had been hacked away, the sides pulled apart. The fur and mane had been shaven. Because of this, there was a lack of contrast between the smooth outer skin and the matted muscles and bones of the stomach.

"No partner today?" Lisa mercifully interrupted his thoughts, stepping up to him. Her gaze continued to just miss the unicorn, though there was a sick twist in her mouth.

Ron gave a pointed glance at Kevin, still in the bushes. Lisa raised her eyebrows. He sighed, "Effing Dawlish."

"Ah," she instantly turned sympathetic. Both ignored that they were distracting themselves from discussing the corpse in the room. "Forgot you got stuck with him last week. Your, what, fourth one?"

"Sixth," Ron corrected, reluctantly turning to examine the unicorn.

"Blimey, no wonder Harry's pissed," Lisa didn't look as amused as she would normally be. She shifted back to the crime. "We waiting for Dawlish?"

"We'd be waiting awhile. Kevin?"

"Nah, we've already covered it," she shrugged before her tone grew serious. "Like the others, there's no clear clues. That's why I want the consult: a fresh set of eyes on this blasted case."

"Give it to me."

Lisa gazed at the corpse, tone softening, "No details on the unicorn yet, the magizoologist's arriving this afternoon. So all we know is the obvious bits. It died around midnight, was left here at one this morning, and was found soon after. If it's like the others, no known cause of death."

A babble of muggle tourists swept by the notice-me-not charm, pointing at a movie poster and shouting in another language. Neither Auror paid them much mind.

"Its been dried," Lisa continued darkly. "Like a piece of meat."

Ron's thoughts went back to those hanging pigs. He decided to have a vegetarian dinner that night. Maybe the whole week, "What was it?"

"Pardon?"

"Was it a he or she?" he wasn't sure why he asked this.

"Don't know," Lisa frowned. "I'll ask the magizoologist when they show."

Fighting down his reflexive revulsion, Ron stepped closer to the body.

He'd never been a huge fan of unicorns. Not that he disliked them, he'd just never thought about them much. It was only now, as he looked at this corpse, that its majesticness hit him. Later on, this would strike him as being phenomenally mental as it barely resembled a unicorn. Its horn had been reduced to a burrowed hole in its head, its pure white hair was torn away to exposed skin, and its innards lay split open. Maybe the feeling struck him because, no matter how used he was to hardened criminals and substandard Dark Lords, a butchered unicorn was something different. Something so loathsome that one couldn't help but feel indignant anger.

Yet, it was beautiful in a grim way. The legs reminded him of a dancer, like in one of those ballets his tutu-obsessed nieces 'dragged' him to. Long and gently curved, the legs ended with hooves shining of mother-of-pearl. Being drained of blood, the corpse hung even limper than a usual dead body. It made the lithe animal appear more fragile and delicate. Not helping this was its glazed, haunting blue eyes. They stared shy of him, as though pleading for help. He hoped this last bit was his imagination running wild.

On top of everything else, the body seemed smaller than Ron had expected. Because of this, he doubted this had been a full-grown unicorn. He vaguely recalled an old Care of Magical Creatures class and mentally 'reassigned' the fur as being gold rather than white. Or no, silver, as it'd had a horn? For some reason, this shift of colours hit him like a bludgeoning hex.

Merlin, it'd been a foal. A child.

Ron decided the unicorn was a she. Was as good as anything, he supposed. Thinking of her like that made things easier. "What was that time of death?" he called back to Lisa.

"Around midnight," she answered, hesitant footsteps signalling her approach around the corpse. "There's too much damage on the body to be certain, but muggles started calling the police at one."

"What did they say?" Ron slowly walked around the body, expression becoming darker by the moment. "Did her body just appear?"

Lisa paused, possibly surprised by the pronoun. But she then gave an understanding smile. "The muggles didn't see anyone come or go. By the time a couple stumbled across 'her' and started screaming, she was long dead."

"CCTV capture anything?"

"It's blank at the crucial bit," said Lisa. "Goes dark when the park was normal then restarts with the dead unicorn in the centre. Less than five minutes passed before she was found. Thank late pub goers and the theatres letting out. All have been long since obliviated. I have their statements, but there's nothing new."

"It went blank," Ron's brow creased. "Was it deleted? Magical interference?"

She gave a helpless shrug. "Most likely the latter, though these things are so temperamental it's impossible to tell. Similar things happened at the other crime scenes."

"It was dark for how long?"

"Maybe two minutes," she answered before heading up his next question. "She wasn't killed here. Magic or no, with the butchering and 'collecting' of items there just wasn't time. There's not even a blood splatter, though with the dirt around it's unlikely they tried to clean up anything." She tapped her fingers against her wand. "This was just the dump site."

"Great," Ron scratched the nape of his neck. "So like the other deaths? Christ, I'm tired of saying that. Feeling like a broken record."

"Doesn't mean it's not true," Lisa nodded in agreement with both statements. "The time-frame when the cameras are out are too quick for anything else, unless we're talking about a time-turner. I'd bet they kill the animal, apparate to dump the body, and apparate back out. Maybe a portkey? But the apparation would be enough to take out the CCTV, if we're talking about a group. With the different MOs, I'm not seeing this being one guy."

"The cuts look medical," he silently agreed with her. Taking another look at the wounds he then turned away from the unicorn. "They knew what they were doing. It's organised, rational. This is getting to be familiar."

"But it's a big difference from the first few," she sighed. "Back when we thought it was a psychotic break or someone targeting werewolves. Can't believe I'm missing those days."

Ron glanced at the sky. It struck him as being horribly inappropriate that it was such a sunny day. "Tox screen?"

"By the preliminary report, its the same as the rest. An unidentified potion, so a possible cause of death," Lisa pursed her mouth, annoyed that this was still unknown. "A poison that can take out nundos and werewolves alike, while leaving barely any trace. What are we talking about here?"

"Nothing good. I mean, why even bother with a potion? Spells are easier and faster."

"Might be worried about leaving a magical trace. Or maybe they're squibs?"

"Maybe they aren't human," another voice chimed in. The two turned as Kevin came up, looking a bit peaky. He avoided the unicorn but gave Ron a nod. "Screwed up thing. Could be vampires, what with drying up the blood?"

"Maybe," Ron didn't buy it, there was too much damage on the bodies for that. This wasn't damage that would show a struggle: it was likely all postmortem. He glanced around at the crowds of people outside the notice-me-not wards. His eyes narrowed at another thought. "Hold up, this is central London. So this group has no problem killing unicorns, but they draw the line at hurting passing witnesses? Criminals against magical creatures almost always hate any non-wizards, but they aren't targeting muggles. What the hell is this?"

Lisa gave a low exhale, "Unless the poaching is the point rather than the killing, so creatures rather than humans. We are talking about a lot of unicorn blood here, not to mention the other body parts."

Ron shook his head, flummoxed. "Most of the animals at the beginning were 'just' killed and dissected. An earlier unicorn horn was even left alone! This isn't about money," he glanced at Kevin. "Or about blood."

"Maybe they don't think we're taking this too seriously, and think that killing muggles would escalate it. Least in our minds," Kevin considered, taking the argument in stride. "How would they know Harry opened the investigation after the first werewolf was found? This sort of group would assume we'd dismiss 'half-breeds' just like them."

"It's not like there hasn't been press coverage. Extensive coverage with irritating nicknames."

"The criminals could think it's sensationalised," he retorted, getting some colour back in his face. "Either way, they know we'd take any muggle killings even more seriously than magical creatures. They might not want to risk it."

"They're worried about increased pressure?" Ron said. "I doubt a group who massacres unicorns has any moral qualms. Blimey, they even killed a nundo! They don't care about taking risks. An Azkaban sentence would probably be a vacation for them."

"Not only that. They're making no attempt to hide the bodies," Kevin said.

Ron looked remorsefully at the unicorn, trying to puzzle this out, "Each one's been placed in a public area so they want them to be found quickly. They're trying to make a scene with displaying them," he gave a single thought to this being an attempt to shatter the Statute of Secrecies, but then dismissed it. There were surely easier ways to accomplish that, "They're proud and showing off. Taunting us?"

"One more thing," Lisa drew a finger against her chin. "Pretend this was a 'normal' killing spree; of humans, that is. At the beginning, their bodies were dissected but barely anything was taken. As time went on, the cuts became more precise and the bodies were ransacked. If this was an ordinary serial killer, we'd say that he was curious at the start and is learning at a rapid rate. We'd also classify the missing body parts as trophies. _Not_ as poachers."

"It's a group, though. The tight time-frame and different MOs tell us that much. So they're all progressing at the same rate?" but Ron paused, thinking this over. The three of them stepped towards the benches, away from the body. "No wait, that's a good point. Trophies…and more as time passes. You don't think this group is growing? Necessitating that more be taken each time?"

There was a small silence.

"You're clueless too, aren't you," Kevin sighed.

Ron gave a helpless shrug, "Yeah, this is too effing weird. I'm getting sick of these hypotheticals."

"Be glad you aren't stuck with the case," Kevin exchanged a glance with an equally annoyed Lisa before something occurred to him. He turned back to Ron with a raised eyebrow. "Aren't you short a partner? Or are they also spewing their guts out."

Ron only then realised Dawlish had never shown.

"Harry lost his senses and assigned him Dawlish," Lisa explained. This was enough to make Kevin send Ron an understanding look.

"Left without him? Good move," Kevin considered something and scowled. "Never stand near him in a fight, hear me? Almost took out my leg with a cutting curse a year back. Claimed he was aiming for a second floor balcony and _I_ got in _his_ way. Can you believe it? A balcony and he bloody well blamed me? There's a reason the arse can't get promoted."

"There, there," Lisa said with mock sympathy before turning back to Ron. "Ignore him, he hasn't had breakfast yet. But have a think about the case. If you come up with any patterns, send me a Patronus. Seriously, I don't care how small it is. Everything's coming up blank."

"And hex Dawlish when you see him," Kevin chimed in snappishly, still musing over his almost-amputation.

"Don't curse him," she sighed. "He's not that bad. Just don't deliberately poke him—that is, more than you've already done. You might start by apologising for running off without the bloke."

"I didn't run off," Ron half-heartedly retorted.

"Of course you did," Lisa retorted. "Just apologise, it's not master alchemy. It's all about catching flies with honey rather than vinegar. Something you really ought to learn what with your spree of partners," she glanced back at the unicorn. "Still, on the note of honey. You mind doing us a favour?"

"If it's not apologising to Dawlish, sure."

Lisa let the comment go, "We're both stuck here today waiting on the magizoologist. Mind giving Harry an informal debriefing? Only way we'll solve this blasted case is if we get moving and find the pattern, which means more teams. Emphasis that, will you? I'm not going to begrudge leadership: the more people the merrier."

"Yeah, no problem," Ron easily agreed, mind back on what was going on with these killings. "Want anything out to the press?"

"Circe, no," Kevin grimaced. "Not a mention of Leicester or we'll be swarmed. With another unicorn it'll be front page this time. Bloody 'Rippers'. Can't reporters be more creative with their criminal nicknames?"

Lisa sent him another hard look, "I'd rather no nicknames, myself."

"But if they're going to assign one anyway," Kevin argued, "why reuse Jack the Ripper? It doesn't even make sense! Sure, it started in Whitechapel. But these are magical creatures dying."

"Dying and being torn apart," Ron put in, frowning back at the unicorn. "Still, the press making allusions between a brutal crime spree and the Ripper? Don't know why you're surprised. This is London, mate."

* * *

 **A/N:** I really think Harry and Ron would be brilliant Aurors, what with their experience with solving mysteries and nabbing bad guys. But it's not as though everything would go smoothly. Criminals aside, I'd imagine that Harry being promoted to Head Auror would shake things up. Not saying that Ron would be jealous (he strikes me as the sort who'd hate extra bureaucracy and pointless paperwork), but he might be peeved at having to find a new partner. This irritation could oh so easily take a passive aggressive turn.

Also, hope you aren't annoyed about Ron's stunts! Making him (or Harry) a perfect, wholly law-abiding Auror was too OOC for me. Ron cares about his job and is passionate about his cases, sure. But if he's irritated about something he's not going to let it go.


	3. A Werewolf's Howl

**A/N:** There's not much canon clarification about how the duties are divided within Britain's Magical Law Enforcement, so I decided that Hit-Wizards are the 'regular' policemen and patrolmen. The Aurors are more specialised and are only called in when, A. There's a dark wizard involved. B. There's evidence of dark magic/substances. Or, C. The crime is either particularly ghastly or has become a spree. Think of it like the difference between US state police and the FBI, or local UK police and MI5.

Hermione, as Director of Magical Law Enforcement, has direct control over the Hit-Wizards and overlooks the Aurors. But, on a day to day basis, Harry (as Head Auror) is in charge of organising and leading the Auror teams. Also, the Auror hierarchy is as follows: Head Auror (Harry Potter), Deputy Head Auror (Susan Bones), Senior Aurors (Ron Weasley, Lisa Turpin, Dmitri Szilvassy, and others), Aurors (Doug Dawlish, Kevin Entwhistle, Cormac McLaggen, Euan Abercrombie, and assorted others), and Junior Aurors.

Though Senior Aurors are usually partnered with Aurors or Junior Aurors, exceptions were made after the Second War (due to lack of personnel). So it was that Harry and Ron were partners pretty much from day one. This lasted through their promotions, only coming to a halt when Harry became Head Auror. Hence, the present issues.

Which probably none of you cared about. Sorry and on with the story!

 **General Disclaimer:** RUMBLEROAR! (Still not Rowling)

* * *

"'Rest now, my friends. Soon, I'll unfold you.  
Soon you'll know splendours  
You never have dreamed all your days, my lucky friends,  
'Til now your shine was merely silver.  
Friends, you shall drip rubies, you'll soon drip precious rubies…'"

—Sweeney Todd to his barber's knife, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

Ron strolled into Auror Headquarters. There was no hurry as nothing was pressing. It was setting up to be (like he predicted) a fairly quiet day. While not thrilled at the inevitable boredom, he was glad the Selwyn case had finally finished. It'd been a nasty one that had lasted weeks. Though not violent, sorting it out had been a mess. For the confusing investigation had started with a potions' robbery and a false Death Eater sighting, before ending with an embezzlement where the original 'victim' was brought up on charges. He was half-surprised a cursed kitchen sink hadn't also been thrown in.

He was sympathetic that Hermione now had to deal with the legal nonsense of that, but was happy to wipe his hands of it. So now, all he had to do was face Harry.

As Ron walked down the main hallway, he mused about sending the 'news' via owl, Patronus, or office memo. There was a rush of sorts, sure, but he didn't have any real updates to the magical creature case. It was only more of the same: more of nothing. So at least the informal briefing would be short. Still, he wasn't worried about that talk. He was vaguely curious about how annoyed Harry was, and if Dawlish had disappeared to go off and complain about him. If so, if wouldn't be so much a 'briefing' as a 'shouting match'.

Ron's mouth crinkled up into a small smile. He ducked into his office, just to confirm that there were no pressing messages. Following this he made a beeline to the Head Auror's office, pleased anticipation sinking in.

" _About time he got angry,_ " Ron muttered to himself, nodding vaguely as he passed a group of coworkers. " _Stoic git_."

Not that he was glad that Harry was annoyed, just that…alright, he was pretty pleased about it. He'd been trying to ruffle the man's feathers for months, so it was nice it was finally working. Hermione could say what she wanted to about Ron's impulsive plans and their tendency to backfire, but he knew this was brilliant. A long-term con to slowly, but surely, make Harry insane.

Ron caught up to his thoughts and amended them. Not 'make Harry insane', no. 'Make Harry see reason' was loads better. If that meant he had to annoy other Aurors to do so, he was willing to make the sacrifice.

Reaching the end of the hall he strode through the small attached corridor. Heading past the curious secretary and grabbing hold of the office door, he was met with defeat.

"Lo, have we met?" Taylor Foreman called out from her desk across the way, making the Senior Auror sigh and turn from the locked door. "Because we clearly haven't, if you think you aren't telling me a word."

Taylor had been Head Auror Robards' secretary when Ron had first joined the force. He didn't know how long the woman had been here before that, but even the Senior Aurors back then couldn't remember a time without the bubbly-to-the-point-of-irritating witch. The truly odd bit was that she barely looked a day over her thirties. He was used to long lifespans, but this was ridiculous. When he'd become an Auror he'd viewed her as ten years his senior. Now, after a decade where her short blonde hair and sprinkling of freckles had remained unchanged, she could pass for Luna Lovegood's twin. That is, minus her range of smart periwinkle robes and business attire.

There was a persistent rumour around MLE that Dmitri Szilvassy wasn't the only vampire on the force. Still, Ron wouldn't be surprised if Taylor herself had been who'd started that gossip. She'd find it funny, no doubt. There was no telling how many false rumours she urged on while keeping the truly juicy bits to herself, as the woman collected information like Hermione did books.

He reassessed his description of her. Forget about Luna. Taylor was like if Rita Skeeter had not only found a heart but a conscience, all while having the disarming personality and coloured wardrobe of an excited preteen.

"Secret Auror stuff," Ron tapped his foot. "Did you hear? I'm sort of required to tell your boss about emergencies. Could you open the door?"

"'Emergencies' my arse," the secretary huffed, not believing this for a moment. She also didn't release the lock. "Harry's in a right state, he and Dawlish. Surprised you missed them. They were headed your way with wands and pitchforks."

"Pitchforks?" His impatience gave way to puzzlement. "What?"

"Muggle tools used for hay and…it's a saying, don't worry about it. They don't actually have pitchforks," Taylor blew a strand of hair away from her face. "Harry's peeved. Almost positively at you, seeing as how you look far too gleeful at his pain. What have you done now?"

"Come on, he's my best mate," Ron waved this off, not able to keep a glint from his eyes. "I wouldn't mess with the bloke for no reason. After all, it's not like he did anything to get _me_ pissed off at _him_. Then it'd be a different story," he shifted gears. "About this 'pain'. Vaguely annoyed pain or properly traumatised pain?"

Taylor gave him a long, speculative look, "You're either the best or the worst brother I've ever met."

Ron took this as a compliment. He also remembered that he shouldn't get distracted.

"I'm still not letting you in," she retorted his unasked question. "Mainly as I'm sure you know more about the horde of snidgets at Friday's press conference than you let on."

"The ones that attacked him? Eh, it was harmless," Ron said, frowning a touch. "He was barely even bothered by it. How can someone shrug off that in less than an hour? Ridiculous, is what it is. Whoever's behind it must be disappointed as hell."

"I'm sure," Taylor's lips twitched in a half-smile. "The same someone who magically drew a rain cloud over his scar?"

"It washed right off. Shoddy merchandising, if you ask me," this time Ron scowled. "That Harry went into a meeting with it shows he should use a mirror every so often. His hair's proof enough of that."

She stared at him, head inclining. He could see the amusement sliding off her face. "Enough of this. Why're you doing this and the mess with the partners? Harry hasn't figured out the first bit, but the department has a bet going about what in Circe's name is going on. Only McLaggen's stupid enough to think you're envious, though 'harmless pranks' and 'Weasley family revenge' are popular. Szilvassy, sexy, sensitive hunk that he is, has this whole theory about 'misplaced love'," she caught his disbelieving look and snorted. "Which was our reaction too. But he started rambling on about how, with Harry making Head, you miss him as a partner. It's a small leap from there to you trying to sabot—"

"Not trying to sabotage him," Ron cut in, knitting this in the bud. "Not envious either. I'm not even asking why you lot were betting on this because, frankly, I'm used to this nonsense." Leaning against her desk his tone turned serious. "There's no gossip to let you in on. I need to talk to Harry about a legit case. So, please, open the door."

It was the first time Taylor paused, actually considering his request. "You aren't going to mess with his office?"

Ron huffed, "Like I'd do that with a witness!"

"Not very reassuring," Taylor glanced down the hallway, then back to Ron. Her wand lifted to point at the office door. She gave it a small flick as she waited. "A hint for the bet?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm risking being fired. Least you can do is get me the hundred galleon pot," Taylor said, wand unmoving in her outstretched hand.

"Like you could get fired. Wait, a hundred?" Ron wished he was surprised. But he knew well how quickly the bets increased with the impulsive personalities in MLE. "Whatever, it's a prank. Not a big deal."

"It's not a prank," she kept staring at him, all too perceptive. Ron again considered her resemblance to Luna. He fidgeted, considering searching for Harry or staying here until he got back. But he didn't know where the bloke was and Taylor would just keep questioning him.

"Alright, fine," he huffed, not believing he had to deal with this. "Szilvassy's not completely off the mark. Not about the sabotage stuff! But about, y'know."

Taylor practically shone at this 'confession'. Then, surprisingly, she fell silent. Flicking a spell at the office door, she gestured him in with a knowing smirk.

" _Barmy,_ " Ron muttered to himself as he headed through the door. " _Absolutely mental._ "

"All the best people are!" Taylor cried out cheekily, magically slamming the door after her words (right before he could respond).

Ron glanced back at the closed entrance for a moment, wondering if he'd made a mistake. But Taylor wasn't the gossiping sort, at least about true things. She liked to know all the tid-bits, not spread them around. She'd also already known he was behind the pranks, so there was no issue on that front.

Shrugging the problem off he properly trooped into Harry's office. The usual mess was ignored as he waltzed over to a dark walnut desk with piles of papers magically held in place. Sitting in one of the chairs before it, his legs were crossed up against one of the wooden desk legs. Lounging back, he only then took a proper look around. Shelves were clustered with books and items, a Firebolt was propped up against the wide window (where the bright sun obscured the panoramic view of the Thames), a few chairs were scattered around the main desk, and a flurry of Quidditch posters lined the walls.

He took a second look at the last, noting it was no longer just posters. Harry must finally be beginning to 'unpack'. So now, amidst the flying players, there were plenty of enlarged photos of waving people (most of them redheaded, where more than a few were Ron himself), framed _Daily Prophets_ with Ginny Potter bylines, and many crayoned doodles.

Ron squinted at the last ones, trying to figure out what the pictures depicted. Almost all were simply colourful, beloved splotches. The only discernible bits were where Harry or Ginny had written at the bottom, proudly putting 'James' or 'Albus' and the date the masterpiece was drawn.

He spent a minute or so distracted by this, trying to decide if Rosie was the artist of the family. He was pretty sure she was (as her glimmering pictures _almost_ resembled the unicorn butterflies she proclaimed they were). So though these pictures by his nephews were nice and everything, he didn't think it was much of a competition.

The office was still empty. Ron, growing bored, turned to the desk itself. He was pleased to note that the books on regulation Hermione had given Harry had been shoved in the corner, still clearly unread (though in a partly prominent spot, surely there to appease her). Many of the files had also been skirted into corners, with a vague organisation that could only be due to Taylor's interference. The only ones right in front of Harry's chair looked to be the most recent cases, seeing as how he spotted the names Lestrange and Selwyn on one. But this, too, was boring.

Reaching over and rolling a golden snitch off the desk, he idly tossed it up and down. Or, at least, he attempted to. For the moment the snitch touched his skin it burst into movement. Sprouting wings and flapping like a hummingbird, the snitch had disappeared before the wizard could realise what'd happened.

Ron leaned back against the seat and peered around the room, confused. A low buzzing was now barely discernible, but for the life of him he couldn't spot where the snitch had gone. He felt a bit silly, but reassured himself it was pretty much his friend's fault. Who left an activated snitch on their desk? It was like letting loose a dog without a collar; practically begging for it to get lost.

Further musings were cut off when the door opened. Harry, storming in, halted at seeing that his office was already occupied. But this surprise gave way to an irritated sigh. Sending a glare outside (presumably at Taylor—Ron made a note to bring her biscuits as thanks, and only then recalled he'd forgotten to grab a treacle tart for distraction) and then roved his steely look around to his best friend.

"Like the view?" Harry bit out sarcastically.

"Tad bright for my taste," Ron said, gesturing at the blaring light from the window.

Harry didn't bother with a response. Gritting his teeth he finished storming in, which was when Ron noticed that a furious Dawlish was trailing behind him. Though both were angry, the difference between the two men was stark. Harry seemed equally frustrated at both, but was trying to hold back his annoyance. Dawlish had no such qualms.

"Yeah, so," Ron hemmed as the door was slammed. "The unicorn case—"

" _What're you playing at!_ " Dawlish cut in, still standing with anger radiating off him.

Ron eyed him oddly, "You're this annoyed over an apparation?"

"Since you apparated mid-sentence, then left the bloody meeting point before I arrived!" Dawlish steamed. Harry sunk into his chair, glaring in equal measure at both of them. "I couldn't go further without a damned partner!"

"Don't give me that, Leicester Square was a few blocks away," Ron retorted. He turned to Harry. "What're you doing, assigning me someone who can't read a map? There were even signs pointing the way. Signs with bloody arrows."

"I can read a map! But it's against policy to go off alone, even for a block— _as is apparating from the Ministry_. Like you did!" Dawlish spurted, his face growing red. "Potter, I'm not standing for this! I ought to have believed the horror stories about this menace."

Ron scoffed, "You're the one with horror stories about you. At least I'm not infamous for friendly fire—"

"Abercrombie hit me first!"

"Yeah right! You sent Euan to hospital!"

"SO DID YOU!"

"FOR A TWISTED ANKLE, NOT INTERNAL BLEEDING! AND MINE WAS ACCIDENTAL, YOU ARSE!"

"YOU LITTLE—"

" _Silencio. Silencio_ ," Harry intoned with an irritated air, waving his wand at the furious men. Mouth pursed, he eyed their standing forms as their blustering anger turned to him. "Either you sit down, or I'll use body-binds to keep a fight from breaking out. Your choice."

The aurors glared at the Head Auror, then at each other.

Harry twitched, "Ten seconds. Ten, nine…"

Silently raging, the wizards reluctantly sat down.

"Good, you're not complete children," the dark-haired man sighed, glancing up as though praying for patience. "Wands on the table."

They stared, not acquesting.

"Wands on the table," Harry's tone was blunt and wry, "or you're both suspended. I'm not saying it a third time."

Ron, though reluctantly, drew his wand and placed it on the desk. Dawlish hesitated even more, but with another glance at the unamused Head Auror he too placed it down.

"Fantastic," Harry drawled, picking up the wands and putting them to the side. He then leaned forward, wholly unimpressed. "You both have discipline records a mile long…Weasley, stop mouthing at me! I know I'm being hypocritical. Also, yes, I called you Weasley. That's what you get for gleefully making my life hell. Don't even deny it! As for the hypocrisy? I, unlike you two, never endangered missions or other aurors!"

"Let's sum this up," he pointed a finger at Ron. "For months, you've antagonised your partners so much they've all begged to be reassigned. That, or they landed in St. Mungo's. Or they threatened to sue. Or they actually sued—you, me, the whole bloody department!" his finger shifted to Dawlish. "While you aren't 'deliberately' losing partners, you are anyway. That's because everyone thinks you're an egoistic, unimaginative sod who only wants to save his own skin. Your track record, unfortunately, doesn't disprove this. So unlike Weasley's impressive history of solved cases, Dawlish? I still haven't the faintest why Robards promoted you to homicide."

By this point Dawlish had shifted his murderous stare from the slightly grinning Senior Auror to the frustrated Head Auror.

"Weasley, stop smirking!" Harry gritted out at Ron. "This new incident is entirely your fault, so I don't know why you're looking pleased. Still, unlike you two? I care more about solving crimes than dealing with personal nonsense. So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to take off the silencing charms. Weasley will _calmly_ tell me what he saw at the crime scene, Dawlish will _calmly_ chime in with any missing information, and neither of you will say anything irrelevant to the case. Only once the debriefing's finished will we _calmly_ discuss why you're at each other's throats. No wands will be returned until we're done. Nod your heads if you agree."

Both reluctantly nodded.

Harry, though clearly certain he was going to regret this, took off the spells.

"Right," Ron coughed after a moment, awkwardly clearing his throat. He ignored Dawlish's irritated mutter. "Another dead unicorn was found in the centre of Leicester Square late last night. Which, ah, you know. With all the theatre-goers it took two obliviator teams to straighten in up and they're still modifying the CCTV. Lisa's team was sent out as soon as we heard, but she wanted a second opinion. Hence, us. Obviously."

" _Hence_ , you apparating without me," Dawlish gritted out. But, seeing Harry's pursing lips, he fell silent.

"What was taken this time?" Harry then said, rubbing his eyes. "Blood, horn, mane, and tail?"

"The fur too," Ron felt a pull at his chest. "Honestly, it doesn't look much like a unicorn anymore. Was just a foal."

"Merlin. How much blood?"

The Senior Auror hesitated, arms falling to his side. "It's almost been drained. Kevin's even convinced we're dealing with a vampire."

Harry blinked, taken aback, "Drained?" a sick look came over his expression. "What does that make it now. Five unicorns, three werewolves, a manticore, and a nundo?"

"Two grindylow as well. Maybe," Ron gave a helpless shrug. "Seeing as how they turned up near Aldersgate, I'd say they're connected. Could be others too, small enough that we missed. Lisa's requesting more teams be on it; as many as can be spared, honestly. This whole thing's a mess, the least of which is it becoming a media circus."

Harry remained quiet for a moment, shifting through this. He also blinked over by the door, squinting slightly, "No new leads?"

"No leads, period," Dawlish corrected. "Doubt Turpin will find anything with this one," he caught the others' looks and huffed. "She's not confident about any of this, you just said that. She's been over every detail of these cases and can't find anything. It's basically unprecedented, so if there are patterns we're missing them."

"Magical creatures being killed and left in public areas," Harry muttered to himself, irritation shining through. Ron couldn't blame him. Ever since the first report of a dead werewolf had come in (when there wasn't a full moon anytime soon), the whole department had been struggling to crack the case. Though Lisa was taking the lead, with the corpses being found across Britain they'd all had some hand with the research. But weeks later and they were still almost at square one. "But some foreign species. Any reports from the Continent yet? The States?"

"Only us, so far. Concentrated on London. Muggle London, to make things that much better," Dawlish bit out sarcastically.

"Narrows it down," Harry sighed. He then made an odd frown, glancing up at the ceiling. Shaking his head he returned to the conversation. "If it was 'just' poachers, there'd be something. But these psychopaths are butchering them. What about this new unicorn?"

"Not much dissection." Ron continued feeling queasy. "But again, it was bled dry. That hasn't happened before."

"Might just be screwing with us," Dawlish commented.

"Or they're escalating. Quickly," the Head Auror frowned, glancing at the empty wall behind his friend with creasing eyes. He turned back to them. "Even aside from the deaths, the blood alone is dangerous. Any word on rare dark potions entering the market? No, what am I talking about. Far too early to see that. Press gotten anything more?"

"Nah, they haven't heard about Leicester. When they do, I expect you'll be bombarded," it said much about the grave situation that Ron didn't feel his usual amusement when Harry gave a groan about the hounding media. "There'll be another batch of headlines about The Rippers."

"Bloody nickname," Harry cursed. Ron shared his disgruntlement, not being a fan of sensationalised names given by the press to criminals. With the first few animals being cut up and found around Whitechapel, the allusion to Jack the Ripper was easy to make. The name alone was making many creatures panic, as worries heightened that more groups would be added to The Rippers' so-called hit list. With a range of species being targeted, everyone from vampires, veelas, to centaurs were growing nervous. That werewolves could possibly be 'identified' as missing people didn't even help, for with them still ostracised plenty of wizards and witches didn't register that they were bitten. When then died in wolf form, identification postmortem was rare.

There was a short silence.

"Look," Dawlish was the one who spoke up, "I'll say what everyone's thinking: we're wasting our time. We all know it. This ought to be taken care of by the Magical Creatures Department."

Harry (having just squinted at a batch of posters in vague confusion) sat back, brow furrowing, "If it didn't start with werewolves, I'd maybe agree with you. But those are all homicides and the others are brutal killings. More than that, now it's a spree."

Dawlish was incredulous, "Homicides? Not that I'm a fan of dead unicorns, but come on. The werewolves being killed? Nundos? Good riddance, I say. Like putting down rabid dogs."

Any other time, Ron would have punched him. But as Harry was stiffening in anger, he instead relaxed and prepared to enjoy the show.

"To be clear," Harry leaned forward, expression pointed and lethal, "are you supporting the murders? Hunting down people's alright in your book?"

"What? Course not," Dawlish was taken aback. He looked around, as though expecting Ron to side with him. Unsurprisingly, no help was coming. "But these, they aren't people. Killing magical creatures is sad and everything, but I'm not about to shed a tear over a werewolf." This was met with silence, tension filling the air. Dawlish fidgeted, not sure what he'd said. "Come on, the new regulations are mad. I mean…look Weasley, I know your wife was behind it. But the equal rights stuff? Overzealous as all hell. Everyone knows it. A wonky phase, I think."

Again, any other time Ron would have exploded at him. But Harry was turning an interesting shade of bright puce, so he wasn't getting in the way of Dawlish digging an even deeper hole for himself.

Dawlish had also noticed the Head Auror's strange expression and, more importantly, that said Wizarding Saviour was now gripping his wand. Maybe this was what jarred a memory of a half-forgotten rumour or Daily Prophet article.

"Oh, right," Dawlish nodded to himself, sending a somewhat apologetic half-grin at his bristling boss. "Your ward or something has it, yeah? Poor bloke. But don't you say personal feelings shouldn't get in the way? So just because your kid's a monster—"

SLAM!

Harry fists' hit the desk's surface; he leaned over to glare at the stunned Auror. "Let me make a few things clear," every syllable was sharp enough to cut glass. "My godson isn't a monster. Nor is he a werewolf, but if he was? It wouldn't change a damn thing! That's because most of the time, they're as human as you or me. Or no, maybe not you. Since it's because of you racist arses that they can't get jobs! But oh, you take the bloody cake. Criticising the one damn legislation that treats them like everyone else!" he was looking near to throttling the terrified Auror. "Do you know how long it took for their deaths to be investigated as homicides? But now you're fine with tossing that away. Hah, what am I saying? If it was legal, I bet you'd be out there cursing the 'rabid dogs' yourself!"

Dawlish had paled. Scooting his chair back, he leaned as far away from the furious Head Auror as he could. Ron wished he'd brought popcorn.

"You're off this case," Harry finished with a bark. Dawlish's wand was angrily tossed back, where the Auror only just managed to grab it. "Not only that, but since you take murders this lightly I'm not letting you near homicide. Don't look so glum, you're getting your wish! You and Ron are no longer partners. Get out of my office so I can figure out where to reassign you."

After the door slammed from a furious Dawlish's exit, there was an awkward silence.

Ron rubbed the nape of his neck. Harry's glare continued to rest on the door. But then his mouth puckered in confusion, his head turning slightly.

Ron figured he ought to speak, "So, ah—"

"Shut up." Harry cut him off, now staring at the ceiling. His puzzlement only increased. In a split second his gaze darted around to rest on the posters, then window, then back to a corner of the ceiling.

Ron followed his stare, only to be met with nothing unusual. "Ah—"

"Shut it!" the other wizard wasn't paying attention to him, squinting at random places around the room. Without warning, he jerked up from his seat and flung out his arm. Without further ado, he plucked a furiously fluttering golden snitch from the 'empty' air.

"Ohhh," Ron nodded to himself in realisation. Harry sat back down, deactivating the snitch with a swift pull.

"Yeah, 'oh'," Harry said sarcastically, opening a drawer and tossing the snitch into it. "Could you stop poking things that aren't yours?"

"That must've been bugging you the whole time," Ron glossed over the other's statement. "Blimey, did it seem like there was a mosquito in here? An annoying little bzzing you couldn't place?"

Harry gave him a hard, incredulous look.

"Didn't know that was a pet peeve," Ron stored this away for future use. "Your own fault for leaving an activated snitch on your desk."

"You're not going to distract me, you know."

"Wouldn't think of it," he really wouldn't. But it'd suddenly become easy to push the other man's buttons; he wasn't about to let that opportunity slip away.

"I haven't forgotten what you did," Harry scowled at his best friend. "What're you on, driving all your partners around the bend?"

Ron scoffed, "Dawlish is an anti-werewolf moron."

"Which neither of us knew until a minute ago!" he exclaimed. "Or are you telling me all the Aurors you've been assigned have been racist pigs?"

"Specist."

"What?"

"Specist, not racist," Ron frowned. "Is that a thing? I'll ask Hermione. It ought to be a thing."

"Ron," the Head Auror said warningly.

"Not saying Dawlish isn't also racist. Or sexist. Hasn't Taylor complained about him eyeing her up?"

"Enough about Dawlish!" Harry stormed. "Or do you think I'll let you waltz out like everything's swell?"

"…well. Not after you said that."

Harry gave a harsh groan. Running a hand through his dark hair he made it stand even more on end. "You're lucky you're so damned good or I'd also toss you off homicide. Don't look at me like that! You know how many people think the reason you haven't been fired is because you're my brother? Do you get that? They think it's favouritism!"

"Think you mean nepotism," Ron paused. Considering his words he made a face. "I also think I've been married to Hermione for too long. Not that I'm complaining about that, but am I starting to sound like a thesaurus?"

"You git," Harry sunk his head into his hands, words becoming muffled. "I hate you, you know that? Because no matter how many times I point out that your success rate's in the high 90s—which, seriously, well done mate—someone always mentions favouritism. Alright, fine, nepotism! You happy?"

"Yes?"

"Good on you. Makes one of us," he lifted his head back up, mouth scrunched up in irritation. "You're getting a new partner."

"What? Harry, this—"

"You're getting a damn partner! Merlin help you if you force this one away," Harry started shuffling through his files. "You aren't helping Lisa with the creatures' case until that's settled. Don't even answer, it's not a choice! Dmitri can get it. But while I'm trying to find anyone, literally anyone, who'll partner with you? You're going to do something with absolutely no danger involved."

Ron sighed. He'd been expecting something like this, "Desk duty?"

"Missing person," Harry caught his surprised look. "That, corporate espionage, or both."

"That sounds, ah, fairly dangerous," Ron was surprised as well as uncertain if he ought to test his luck by questioning this. "I mean, this is great, but you're not making sense."

Harry shoved the appropriate folder at him, "It isn't dangerous. But I don't want to deal with who brought it in, and I don't want to have to explain it to another Auror. So do the initial interview and that's it. If you need anything in the field, get someone else to do it. Aside from this, consider yourself on house arrest until you get another partner."

Ron eyed him strangely. House arrest? Initial interview? He opened the folder. After the first few lines he was wearily sighing. He also gained a new appreciation for Harry's passive aggressive streak, "George filed the report?"

"Which is why I don't want to deal with it. With him, that is. Not after the salamander and fireworks incident," Harry glared at Ron for good measure. "Is every Weasley trying to get under my skin?"

The older wizard read further, ignoring his friend. "Is this even a missing person? Fawcett hasn't been gone for twenty-four hours yet. No family's reported her missing, she just didn't show for work. Could be sick. Playing hooky. Heck, it could be an elaborate joke on George. He'd more than deserve it."

"This will only be an official case after a day's past," Harry hesitated, seriousness filtering over his expression. "George seemed genuinely concerned. This girl, she's the overzealous Ravenclaw type, serious about her work. Seems to be no close family nearby to notice she's missing. He's honestly hoping she turned tail and went to Zonko's."

"Because she had an invention of his with her, yeah?" Ron scanned the quick summary.

"Yes, though George didn't seem too hopeful about that. Couldn't give me the details, had to return to the shop. But he's worried something happened to her," said Harry. "Go see him and fill in the holes. No one's answering at her flat and we can't go in without probable cause."

"Why is this for us and not the hit-wizards? I don't see any dark magic here. Barely any evidence that a crime took place."

"There's mallowsweet in the Skiving Snackboxes she was carrying. Type C illegal substance," Harry snorted, waving to stop Ron's obvious next question. "George has permission for it, forms and everything."

"Sure, but type C? That's stretching the definition of a dark substance," Ron considered this. "Really stretching it. Actually, more like tossing the definition in the hearth after eating some of that mallowsweet."

"Which is what I thought too. I was going to hand it to Hermione, but then you pulled another stunt," Harry sent him an unimpressed look. "George's being paranoid? Fine, I hope he is. But the hit-wizards can't touch it until the 24 hour mark even if we do send it over. On top of that, it's either send you out or put up with having you around here: bored and doing nothing but bugging me."

"You know you love me," he closed the file, sending the other man a cheery grin. He got a scowl in return.

"Twat."

Ron gave a fake gasp, pressing a hand to his heart, "I say something nice and you wound me like that? Below the belt."

"Get the hell out," was the disgruntled reply.

"Fine, fine," the cheeriness subsided. But a smirk remained as Ron stood up with the folder, reaching over the desk to snatch up his wand. "Hogsmeade it is."

"Only interview George!" Harry called out at once, annoyance brimming. "Don't do anything else without a partner and—"

POP!

Harry stared at the place where Ron had apparated. With a low curse, his head sunk back to the table.


	4. A Pygmy Puff's Warcry

"'And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.'"

—Albus Dumbledore, _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

* * *

Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was a remarkably odd shop in many respects. From the psychedelic, flashing neon colours atop every display, to the inventions that were…overenthusiastic in showing off to the customers, WWW was a place where no could be bored. This applied to the back room of the store as well. The boxes of inventory were more likely to attack you then not, and Circe help you if you ran into an employee on their break. Still, the most entertaining part of the back room was something that many first overlooked. This was because the long window beside the door opening to the front register seemed positively utilitarian. When the twins had first shown him the contraption, Ron had thought the one-way window looking out at the front of the shop was a good idea. A touch creepy, sure, but a decent way to keep an eye on things.

Looking back, he found it amazing he'd thought his brothers capable of something that normal. For the window had nothing to do with catching shoplifters or the like. Undoubtedly designed to be a mirror of entertainment from a safe distance, George seemed all too used to it. Bored with it, almost, as he somehow wasn't currently gazing in horror out to the front of WWW.

Ron, not as familiar with this chaos, stared out the window to where a pygmy puff rebellion had taken over the shop. He gave a silent thanks that he hadn't switched careers like he'd considered years ago, having then been under the ridiculous notion that working at WWW was far less dangerous than being an Auror. He didn't know what he'd been thinking.

"Shocked you're here," George said, leaning against the glass. Unlike Ron, the owner was wholly flippant about the shrilling puffs and screaming customers. "No offence, nothing about you. But Harry made it seem like it was for the hit-wizards."

"He changed his mind," Ron peered out the window, brow furrowing as brightly coloured puffs flung themselves off the shelves into shrieking customers' hair. "Are you, ah, going to do anything about that?"

"That?"

" _That_ that," Ron nodded out the glass, in case the situation somehow hadn't grabbed his brother's attention. Which, to be fair, it probably hadn't.

"Ah, that." George followed his brother's pointed look and glanced out the window to where his employees were flinging boxes onto the puffs with ninja cries. "Nah, it's fine. Got to get it out of the puffs' system. See, little rebellions now and then does them good. Least, that's what Angie says. But that woman's terrifying, so she might just be looking for a fight."

As Angelina swept by the window at that precise moment (jumping off the counter to hurdle on a crowd of pygmy puffs), Ron figured George was onto something. But this didn't sway his certainty that his brother was behind the chaos. That it'd quickly made him 'bored' made it even more likely.

"So Harry changed his mind?" George continued, focusing back on Ron. His expression then lit with gleeful realisation. "Hold up, it was you! You've finally broken Harry's patience? Good on you, little bro. Couldn't be prouder. What made him crack? He usually just laughs at pranks, stupid git, so it must be the partner nonsense. You've got rid of another one?"

"I didn't do anything," Ron claimed in a half-truth, wrenching his gaze away from the front room. "Diggle, my idiot ex-partner, called Teddy a monster in front of Harry."

George let out a low whistle, "He in the morgue?"

"Kicked off homicide, probably off of Investigation altogether," Ron shifted. "But listen, about Charlotte Fawcett."

"Lottie, not Charlotte. She's like Tonks used to be: hates her first name. 'Bout took my ear off the first and last time I made that mistake," George squinted at him, happy enough with juggling multiple conversations while ignoring the war rampaging in his shop. "But no, you think I can't see through a lie? Harry set you on this after telling me the case wouldn't go to the Aurors. That doesn't add up and you're avoiding the topic. I repeat, how did you piss him off?"

"About Fawcett," Ron forced them back on track. George, though rolling his eyes, didn't protest. "You know her well?"

"Fine fine, this is more important. Though I'm not forgetting, yeah?" he leaned back against the glass, undisturbed about the chaos reigning behind the window. Shrill shrieks leaked through the silencing wards. "Lottie's worked here near a year. Studious, quiet type, but madly creative. I recruited her when she graduated Hogwarts."

"You recruited her?" Ron asked. He'd thought his brother had been batting away mounds of applicants. Though Merlin knew why, if the present employee vs. pygmy puff war was anything to go off of.

"Absolutely," George grinned. "See, I had lunch with Neville right before that. He was mightily ticked off. From what I could gather from his awful penmanship, someone had hexed all the Gryffindors' voices—including his. Unable to undo it, they'd been stuck roaring like lions for a few weeks."

Ron snorted, wondering how he'd missed this.

George nodded at the snort. "Naturally, I investigated. Found a genius Ravenclaw Chaser who was ticked off she'd lost her last chance at the Quidditch Cup to Gryffindor. So I talked to Lottie and gave her two options: either she come work for me, or I'd give the Headmistress a call. Seeing as how McGonagall was still roaring at the time, Lottie agreed to be WWW's newest inventor. With generous pay and benefits, of course. Not even an internship, so it was a win-win for everyone. Well, not for Nev. But it's his own fault he didn't put two and two together and find the culprit."

"Uh huh," Ron was wholly unsurprised by any of this. "What's she been inventing?"

"Lately? Reinventing," George corrected. "The Skiving Snackboxes have been looking shabby so haven't been a big seller. She was supposed to bring in her prototypes of the new versions today. Warned me they're still wonky, but it was just going to be an assessment of how things were coming along."

Ron remembered the note in the summary. "Anything special enough to go to Zonko's with?"

George exhaled, "Sure, I told Harry that was possible. But it's not. First, she's too by-the-books to turncoat. More importantly, she's too smart to commit 'corporate espionage' with something as stupid as this. The new Snackboxes have potential, but there's too many issues for anyone except us to bother dealing with them."

"What kind of issues?" Ron switched gears. This would likely be a dead end, but it could be something. He was also genuinely curious about the revamped product. He blamed this on the numerous times he'd gotten out of Binns' class with a magical nosebleed. Good times, good times. "What's new about these Snackboxes?"

"The new ones are more subtle with the symptoms. Plus, there's a wider range of items," George glanced out into the front shop with a barely hidden snicker at the chaos unraveling his store. "Blimey, have the puffs gotten into the punching tele—ooo, ouch." He opened the door, hollering out a cascade of shouts. "EVANS, USE A STUNNER! DON'T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, YOU'RE FINE. THAT'LL BARELY BE A BLACK EYE!"

The door was shut. George turned back to his uncertain brother, as calm as could be. "Bloody amateurs. They're a good bunch but tend to overreact. Anyway, the Snackboxes. Once the novelty of the old ones wore off people stopped buying them. The symptoms were too extreme. Nobody cared that swallowing the other half pill would instantly cure you, not when all anybody remembered was popped boils. Or, y'know, losing a pint of blood to a nosebleed."

Ron fidgeted, this also bringing up some (not as pleasant) memories. He tried to, again, ignore the battle igniting the store (at least until someone seemed to be in actual danger), "So Fawcett was lightening the symptoms."

"Yep. A buzzing headache instead of a pounding migraine, or a dribble rather than a river of blood. That sort of thing. Anything that will fool a diagnosis spell into saying someone's genuinely sick, without the customers feeling too cruddy," George explained. "Overall, she's close, we're only touching up some hiccoughs. Main problem's with the symptoms. They're subtler now, but as time passes they grow more extreme. _Extreme_ extreme, even for me. Course, this wouldn't be an issue if people took the counter potion when they're supposed to. But when has anyone read instructions?" He waved this off, both knowing he never bothered with this himself.

"Huh, alright," Ron found himself feeling vaguely disappointed. He'd been somewhat expecting the new Snackboxes to erupt with fireworks or the like. Which was when he realised they'd gotten off on a tangent. Mentally chiding himself, he got back on track. "About Fawcett. The file says she doesn't have much family, but what about friends? Coworkers she's close to?"

"None I know of. She's the sort who has loads more acquaintances than friends."

"Any enemies?"

"Nope."

"Problems with coworkers? Suspicious behav—"

"She's a nice girl," George cut in. "Normal too, or as much as anyone in this madhouse. Also, no, she hasn't mentioned any threats. Or stalkers. Or psychotic exes. As far as I know, everything's been peachy. And no, there's been no one odd around the shop. That is, odder than usual."

Ron let it rest, thinking that when he found any friends or family they might know more than her boss. "You have any guesses where she might've gone? Has she taken off like this before?"

"Lottie would've given notice for anything, she always does. Besides, she wouldn't have missed the presentation today," George said, dismissing the implications. "When she didn't show before opening we knew something was up. She just doesn't do that. She's like Percy that way, overzealous and the like. So Angie popped by her flat to see if she'd overslept. No answer. When she was coming back she talked to some shopkeepers who'd seen Lottie walking here this morning. Problem is, she never arrived."

"You have their names?"

"Angie jotted them down. Only did it after I flooed the Ministry…hold up, it's here somewhere," George rummaged in his pocket. A moment later and he was handing the unearthed paper to Ron. "We called St. Mungo's, thinking she might've taken ill. But nothing. No numbers for her family either; she never talks about them much. Got the sense they aren't close."

Ron frowned at the short list. If this was anyone else, he'd be wondering why they'd go so much out of their way for an employee. But this was George. For all his pranking and teasing, he'd give someone the shirt off his back. He might have a mad sense of humour (the ensuing pygmy puff war being a prime example), but it was all in good fun. Even the ancient 'turning-teddy-into-a-giant-spider' had been Fred's idea—George had been the one who'd apologised later. So his concern for a wayward employee made sense.

Putting the names in the file, Ron decided to drop by them on the way to Fawcett's place. Which reminded him of something, "Tell me Angie didn't break into her flat."

"Lottie's flat? Course not!" George clicked his tongue. "Though, so you know, it doesn't look like there was a struggle."

"Of course not," Ron hadn't expected anything else from his sister-in-law and brother. They might be nice people, but they had a very loose definition of legality. Which, now that he thought of it, was rather a characteristic of his family. "She didn't touch anything?"

George scoffed at the idea of Angelina being that careless.

"Right," Ron let it rest, having bigger things to deal with. "Look, this can't be an official case until a day's passed. But since Harry…" he eyed George's scrutinising gaze and sighed, "alright, fine. So because Harry's pissed off at me, I'll be unofficially investigating before then."

"You're in the doghouse," George seemed delighted by this, even with the grim situation.

"Shut it." He realised how he'd phrased the previous sentence. "Not that finding this girl is a punishment or something. It's just—"

"That Harry wants you out of his hair. Got it. Two birds, one stone," George nodded, amused at the thought. "I take it Operation 'Get Harry To Demote Himself' is coming along swimmingly? By the by, the snidgets were a nice touch."

"Hm-mmm," was his non-answer, one that leaked with plausible deniability. He gave a last skim through the thin file. "Listen, if this turns serious I'll need to talk to Angie about her 'not break-in'. Get a memory from her to cover the bases. How close to the shop was Fawcett when she was last spotted? At what time? Did they mention anything odd about her behaviour or anyone else lurking about?"

"One of the shopkeepers said she saw her within spitting distance of here with a large bag, around sunrise. That was Davis I think, Gladys Davis. Nasty old bird, though she told Angie she didn't notice anything strange," George's amusement fell to the wayside. "You think Lottie's in trouble? Maybe she just apparated away."

"Maybe. It's odd," Ron glossed over what he was really thinking. If Fawcett had disappeared within a few streets of WWW, that wasn't good. It was possible she'd apparated away for an emergency. But if she'd been so close to work, would she have raced off without mentioning something to George? "Nothing like this has happened before?"

"She's the only person always here on time, including Angie and me," George nipped the possibility in the bud. He then frowned at his brother, genuine worry in his expression. "Look, whether you stay on this or it gets handed to the hit-wizards, hear me out. I know it's your job to be critical, what with so many liars and criminals running about. But this isn't like Lottie. She's a good kid. She pulls pranks, sure, but it never interferes with her work. This isn't a, dunno, quarter-life crisis. Or her way of telling me she's quitting. I don't care if there's a rubbish rule about 24 hours, something's wrong."

"Don't be like that, I'm taking this seriously," Ron meant every word. "Yeah, she's not an official missing person yet. But all that means is that this case can't be filed until tomorrow. Doesn't mean I'm putting off investigating until then, alright?"

* * *

At first glance there was nothing unusual about the main street leading up to WWW. No discarded Snackboxes or purses hiding under any bushes. Hardly any bushes to look around, really, and a quick search of the lining small alleys also failed to produce anything.

Ron wasn't surprised. He was less thrilled that his diagnosis charms on the streets around the shop failed to produce anything. No trace of dark magic, blood, unsummonable objects, or weapons of any sort. This would normally be a good sign, but as he put the negative results in the growing case folder, he felt an odd feeling of dread in his stomach. Giving up the perusal around as a lost cause, he considered his next move. He wasn't really supposed to do anything else, as Harry would surely get cranky if he started investigating.

Ron snorted to himself, dismissing that as a non-issue. So the only actual question was, should he first interview the people on Angie's list, or should he check out Fawcett's flat? Seeing as how his capable sister-in-law had already broken into the latter and reported nothing amiss, he decided to narrow down where and when Fawcett had last been seen.

Taking out the list, he scanned the few names. Each had their place of business jotted down beside it, which was a help. It was fairly short so he'd likely do a more thorough run-down of possible witnesses later. But for now, it was a good starting point.

Without further ado, Ron headed to the first person and shop on the list.

* * *

"Always good to see you, sir! Wonderful for the customers," Augustus McKinnon gushed, standing taller behind the counter of J. Pippin's Potions on Hogsmeade's High Street. Ron had to force back a gag; whether it was from the odious fumes or the man's gushing, he wasn't positive. "Sure as anything I saw your wife here last week. Told my cousin even! She, daft thing, wouldn't believe me. But now Ronald Weasley too! If you stay half an hour more Helga can see you with her own two eyes. I'd like to see her deny that!"

"Listen, about Charlotte Fawcett," Ron resisted scowling at the wizard, hoping he could leave well within this half hour. He wondered what he'd been thinking, ever wishing for fame. Because sure, being well-known came with its perks (the time he'd discovered his face on a Chocolate Frog card had been the proudest moment of his life, and it didn't hurt his ego that more than a few criminals had surrendered after spotting the war hero). But, overall, he understood why Harry had been arrested more than once for attacking paparazzi. Because being famous was a pain in the arse, mainly due to having to deal with networking morons like this. He didn't know how his best mate still put up with Slughorn. "You told Angelina Weasley you saw her walking about this morning?"

"Indeed I did!" he stated triumphantly, chest billowing out. "Strolling down the street."

"She had a large bag with her?"

"A bag? Why yes!" McKinnon's enthusiasm didn't halt, even in the face of Ron's unimpressed stare. "Looking dodgy. Very dodgy, with that bag she was clutching. She's a shoplifter, eh? Always knew she'd come to no good, Mr. Weasley. That Fowley girl with her—"

"Fawcett."

The wizard blinked.

Ron sighed, having stopped taking notes. "Her name's Fawcett, not Fowley. Why do you think she's a thief?"

The man was unruffled. "Because _Fawcett_ looked like she was up to no good. You said it yourself, with that mighty big bag. Almost the size of her!"

"I see," the Senior Auror hoped the rest of Angie's list wasn't like this. Going off of a hunch, he made an attempt to cut this off. "Yeah, I get it. She looks pretty shifty, what with that mohawk of hers. What's the colour of it, pink?"

"Exactly what I mean!" McKinnon exclaimed. "Florescent pink, could see it crystal clear through the window. Why, I never know what's wrong with the youths these days. What with their…their…Mr. Weasley? Sir? Sir, where are you—"

Ron shut the door behind him, taking a breath of blessedly fresh air. Glancing down at the notepad, he scoffed at the very short entry on McKinnon and set off to the next person. Hopefully this one had actually seen the missing witch.

* * *

"Not again!" Gladys Davis didn't care a wink who Ron was. Which he appreciated, he did. Except that now he was facing a furious old woman mere moments from drawing her wand. "If it's not one of you people, it's another. Last week, that Potter boy was in here. Turning my poor mice into small dragons and laughing while he did so! Laughing! Can you believe it? I told his mother, I don't care who his father is, I'm not letting the boy have any of my precious owls. You know what she did? The nit swore at me like a sailor! All for swatting that unruly brat of hers. Some people have no idea how to raise children!"

"Good god." Ron muttered: hating his job, hating Harry for this assignment, hating Angie for this ridiculous list, and hating he had to pretend to be diplomatic. "Listen, listen! I'm not here because of Ginny. I heard you saw a girl this morning, Charlotte Fawcett? Goes by Lottie?"

If anything, this made Davis even more annoyed. "What of it?"

"She's missing," he explained. "I'm trying to find out where she was last seen. Establish a timeline."

Davis sniffed, "I told the woman earlier all I know. A Weasley too, isn't she? She and that husband of hers, horrid people. The nerve of them!"

"Excuse me?" Ron really wished she wasn't a potential witness.

"You know precisely what I mean!" she didn't back down. "Being like she is, while unfortunate, is no excuse! It's like that wife of yours, muggleborn yet uppity. But how dare the two down the street, experimenting on poor animals for their inventions. Not a shred of decency between them!"

Ron gritted his teeth, holding back a curse (magical or otherwise) at the insults. Davis was a witness, after all. If he could interview neo-Death Eaters, he could refrain from hexing a racist old woman. "I doubt they're—"

"They claim they wouldn't dream of it, but I know better!" Davis fumed, talking over him. "Lately I've been finding all sorts of poor dears around the village, little more than bones. They say it's coincidence they have a new line of products? Hah! Brutal animal testing. Worse than those Zonko maniacs, I can't believe I ever complained about them. Bodies keep being brought to me, but it's far too late for any of them. From flobberworms with one heart rather than two, to pygmy puffs with their skin cleared clean off! Why, just today Gilman across the way brought me a hinkypuff. A wee hinkypuff. Suffocated, poor thing. Cannot imagine the horrors they're testing on them!"

"Hold up," Ron raised a hand to stop her tirade, his interest peaking above his knee-jerk anger. "You've been finding magical creatures around Hogsmeade? Dead creatures?"

"Are you deaf? Of course I have! All thanks to your blasted family."

"I really, really doubt they're…look," the Auror changed tactics, forcibly putting his annoyance aside. "A bunch of animals' corpses have been appearing in London. They've mainly been larger ones, yeah, but do you have any of these bodies?"

"Oh yes, I have them laying around to scare the other dearies," Davis said sarcastically, waving about at the cluttered shop. "No, obviously not! I vanished them straight away."

"Which creatures have you found?"

"How would I remember."

Ron stopped, knowing this was useless. Also, he was keen to stop talking to her. Jotting down a note to mention this possible (albeit unlikely) lead to Lisa. Maybe she, with her not-controversial family, would have more luck than him. Either way, it'd be her problem. With that settled, he reluctantly returned back to Davis and the main matter at hand. "Creatures aside, you saw Fawcett this morning? You're sure it was her?"

Davis huffed but acquiesced, "Of course I'm sure. The girl, I noticed her because of the atrocious thing she'd done to her hair. Cut it right up to her head! Looked like a boy, just horrible. Saw her through this window when she was trooping around at the crack of dawn, holding this overflowing bag to her. Clearly hadn't the brains to do a featherlight spell."

He was finally getting somewhere. "What time was this?"

"Around five, I suppose."

"Was Fawcett with anyone?"

"Not a soul," she sniffed, wanting this intrusion to be over. "Before you ask, no, there was no one lurking about or watching her. Just a boy a few streets back, dawdling and window shopping. Mmph, like any boy would glance at her with that silly haircut. She had enough sense to hide it under a hat, but it fooled no one."

"What sort of hat?"

"That nasty French one," at Ron's look, Davis sighed, thoroughly put-upon. "The flat circle kind."

Ron recalled a favourite dark brown hat of Hermione's, gotten during a vacation with his in-laws years back. Or was it a gift from Fleur? Eh, she'd gotten it somewhere. "A beret?"

"I haven't the faintest!" she exclaimed. "That's all I know. So leave!"

Ron was happy to comply. 

* * *

Madam Rosmerta had flooed straight into The Three Broomsticks and hadn't seen more than a glimpse of Fawcett through the window, like the others. She also couldn't remember if it had happened this morning or the previous one.

Her waitress Belinda Marlin, overhearing, had gleefully chimed in. While Rosmerta scurried back to her waiting customers, Marlin told Ron she'd seen a girl with a large purse at the right time that morning. She waxed poetic about the colourful bag, exclaiming that it was a vintage design from Gladrags and almost positively a knock-off.

The Auror had stopped his note-taking at that, giving her an odd look. "The sun would've barely been up. How could you tell what the purse was? Wait, hold on. Why do you say it's fake?"

Marlin sent him a condescending look, not bothering to answer the first question. "Mate, listen. Vintage Gladrags, y'see? Costs the sun and the moon, along with your firstborn. This is a shopgirl you're after? She wasn't affording that," the waitress stopped, a hungry look crossing her face. She leaned in, suddenly eager for gossip. "Less she stole it. That why you're chasing her?"

After explaining that Ron was looking for her and that she wasn't a thief, he asked if she'd noticed anything except the purse.

"You mean the silly nit?" Marlin rolled her eyes. In no hurry for the conversation to end, she lazed around her words while gazing at the busy restaurant around her. "Seen her about, sure. Never spoke much. Lives near here, I think. I'll see her walking about every so often. Not too often, though. She ain't much of a club girl, so we run in different crowds. You said her name's Charlotte?"

"Goes by Lottie," Ron had mainly stopped taking notes, getting the sense this girl didn't know a thing. But it didn't hurt to be thorough. "You see her walking around with anyone?"

"A boyfriend or whatnot? Nah."

"About this morning," he tried again, "did you notice anything about her behaviour? Like, if she seemed calm or in a hurry. Also, where did you see her?"

"Where? Right outside here," she smartly tapped the table while nodding towards the door. "As for the rest, not really. Though I 'spect that's the point. I didn't notice anything, so she must've looked normal. Was hugging that purse to her, though. Shielding the stuff in it from a drizzle."

Ron paused at the last. "It was raining?"

"Drizzling," she repeated with more emphasis.

"No umbrella?" a nod. "She didn't cast a shield charm over herself?"

Marlin snorted. "How could she? Dunno 'bout you, but if I had my hands full I wouldn't grapple for a wand."

Ron frowned, jotting this down, "You didn't see her wand?"

"Course not. S'what I said, yeah?"

"You see anyone else walking around?"

She giggled. "Hmm, one. A cutie who works at Flourish and Blotts." 

* * *

"Lottie? Sure, I know who you mean," Jeremy Dunbar shrugged, somewhat countering his words. He was half-paying attention, shelving books as Ron looked on. "Works at Wheezes? Blonde ex-Ravenclaw?"

"That's her. I'm trying to find her," Ron fended off the next question. "She's not in any trouble, but she might be missing."

"Damn, I'm sorry. Why are you talking to me? You think she's in trouble?" Dunbar properly turned around, concerned. But in catching sight of the Senior Auror's face who he was talking to hit him. His concern turned to vague panic. "You're Ron We—frick. Hey mate, I barely know her. I was a year ahead of her at Hogwarts, we haven't talked much since. A really nice girl but, look, I know nothing about this, Auror Weasley!"

"You aren't a suspect," Ron internally sighed. The boy's defensiveness wasn't suspicious. After working on so many cases, it was easy to tell a criminal mastermind apart from a kid who'd likely just done something stupid and quasi-illegal in the past month (a feeling Ron was far too familiar with). Being approached by a 'War Hero' in law enforcement was going to make the kid nervous. "I'm interviewing anyone who was walking around Hogsmeade early this morning. It was when she was last seen and I'm trying to get a timeline. Did you see her?"

Dunbar relaxed, but now seemed concerned. "Ah, right. Got it. Sure, this morning. Five-ish? That's when I usually spot her, at least. That'd be around when it started raining? Had to make a dash for the shop to avoid being soaked. My boss was pleased: first time I haven't been late all week."

Ron took note of the phrasing. Did the kid watch for Fawcett? "Remember anything else?

"Right, Lottie. Sorry," Dunbar glanced away from the Senior Auror, frowning as he thought back. "I wasn't paying much attention. Half asleep, you see. But I—yeah. I saw her. She'd gotten a haircut, a really cute one." He caught himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he flushed. "I, I mean, I like short hair. It looked good on her."

The phrasing suddenly made sense. Ron bit back a grin, "Did you tell her that?"

"No, though I thought about it. Nice opening, I figured," Dunbar said sheepishly. "That's hard to get with a girl like her. Never see her at pubs or the like. But her nose's always in a book so, honestly, I've been waiting for her to come in here to start chatting. Stupid, huh."

Ron felt rather sympathetic. He understood his pain: chasing after a smart bookworm was no easy task. "Why didn't you talk to her this morning? She busy with someone else?"

"No, Lottie wasn't with anyone. But she was across the street and struggling with this big bag," Dunbar groaned at the last. "I was a right idiot. After I saw this I realised, duh, I could offer to carry the stuff. Perfect idea, you see? Except that, when I turned back, she wasn't there."

Ron stiffened, his amusement fleeing. "How long were you looking away?"

Dunbar blinked at the sudden seriousness. "Not sure? It was, dunno, less than a minute. Much less."

"This was all on the main road? You were both walking in the same direction?"

"Yeah. Why're you—"

"Were there any side alleys or doorways she could have turned off on?"

"I, I don't think so," the boy had paled. "Galloping goblins. I figured she'd apparated off. I didn't think it was…"

"Can you show me where you last saw her?" Ron cut in. Though he felt sorry for the kid, he needed to follow the first true lead he'd gotten. To a nod, the Senior Auror pulled Dunbar out of the shop and onto the street, calling out to the blustery manager that his employee was going on a break.

"It was over here," Dunbar said, pacing back towards WWW as he gestured farther on. "Is Lottie okay? What do you think happened?"

"Not sure yet. How close was it to Wheezes?"

"Pretty close." 

* * *

In fact, it was only down the road from WWW. The path was brushed with footprints leading off every which way, a small squelch remaining from this morning's drizzle. There was just enough mud that whatever footsteps there were had likely come afterwards.

"It was here," Dunbar said restlessly from beside him, peering around as though expecting Fawcett to pop out of one of the nearby side-alleys. Ron had already cast a number of diagnosis charms, coming up with very little. "Is there a spell, you know, to see the past? See what happened?"

"If there was my job would be a lot easier," Ron was kneeling on the ground. There was nothing that struck him as odd in this area of the road. No sign of a struggle, or anything that Fawcett might have dropped.

"But Divination…"

"Is about the future. It's also touchy as hell," Ron made a note of how close the side-alleys and doorways were. There was nothing close enough that Fawcett could have darted into, least not in a few seconds. Apparation or a portkey were looking more and more likely. "My wife's convinced the whole thing's self-fulfilling, but whatever. You're sure this is where she last was?"

"Right there. I'm positive," the boy was frowning, his worry clear. "But what about, you know, scrying? Or, or time-turners! They go back a few hours."

Ron couldn't help but snort at the last.

"What?" Dunbar said, offended.

"Sorry, sorry. It wasn't a bad suggestion," Ron stretched, looking back up at the kid. "With the time-turners? Most of them were destroyed years ago."

"I heard the Department of Mysteries made more!" Dunbar argued.

"Sure, course they did," Ron shrugged. "But since the Director of Magical Law Enforcement, the Head Auror, and myself were three of the ones who broke them in the first place? Let's just say the Unspeakables don't trust us with their sensitive equipment nowadays," he straightened, standing back up with a last frown at the useless potential crime scene. "But hey, if you get your hands on a time-turner? Give me an owl. Though that probably wouldn't help anyway, since you can't change a thing and are spending all your time hiding."

"What about scrying!" he protested.

"It's as iffy as Divination," Ron rubbed his head. "Listen, trust me on this. I'm not a complete idiot. There's a reason the muggles can stop so much crime just with investigating. You know, following the clues? Magic comes in handy, but more often than not it muddles things."

Dunbar was clearly disbelieving.

"It's not like we don't use magic," Ron tried again, wanting this key witness to stay cooperative. "Take Veritaserum, it's handy in interrogations. Or collecting memories to view in a Pensieve. But you know what happens with the last one? At most, it shows us what happened and who did it. Which makes prosecution a snap, but doesn't help find the criminal. Most often, we don't even have that much. Take now for instance. You were the last person to see Fawcett. But what you saw was a lack of something, which is exactly what we'll see in your memory. That is, if you're fine with me taking it?" a quick nod and Ron continued. "It won't tell us if anyone took her or where she's gone. But it might give us a clue to follow. Got it? Magic's a tool, not a crutch."

The kid still didn't look sold, even when Ron said a spell to make a shield go up around this area of pavement (to stave off contamination or anyone else trodding on the spot).

Ron couldn't blame Dunbar's incredulity, seeing as how he'd had a similar attitude when he'd first joined the Aurors. It'd taken Hermione and Harry (both far more used to muggle ways, and not having a default assumption that magic solved everything) to convince him otherwise. They'd primarily done so by pointing out the numerous times through the years when they'd lived solely because of blind luck or instincts…and rarely from just magic.

It'd taken Hermione's frustrated reminder of the troll incident back in first year for Ron to finally see their point. For, sure, his levitation charm had done the final trick. But it'd only worked because of Hermione's split second thinking and Harry jamming his wand up the creature's nose.

Still, whatever Dunbar thought, he'd agreed to give him his memory of what happened. So there was that. Now to dump the kid back at the bookstore and hunt down Fawcett's flat. 

* * *

Knock.

Another knock.

Ron glanced around the apartment's small corridor and spiral stairs leading down four floors. The place was clean enough. There were spiderwebs and the signs of mould in the corners, but in all he'd seen far worse. After another look at Fawcett's door—#31, with the paint being scrubbed clean off the bronze knocker—he cast a spell to detect close human proximity, directed only for her flat rather than neighbouring ones. When that came back negative, another few spells followed: for detecting recent foreign magic and checking on the lock, respectively. This time, he got his own spell, Angie's unlocking and relocking, and a few minor household charms he assumed were from Fawcett.

One alohomora later and he was gingerly opening the door, casting out spells to warn of impeding obstacles as he did so. But again, nothing. It was only then that he relaxed, though he kept his wand out. Closing the door behind him, he surveyed the small face before him. It seemed odd. No, familiar. He'd never been here before, but the flat with its pale green features and clean though cluttered look reminded him of something.

In the next second, it struck him. The place reminded him of the hole-in-the-wall that Ginny had rented after Hogwarts. That flat in Wales had been one of the cheapest she could find. She would have taken the cheapest place, if not for Harry teaming up with his mum and forcing the newest Harpy trainee to look at a safer area of town.

Ron took a quick tour of the one-bedroom flat (with a teeny hallway, a bathroom, and a connected kitchen and dining room/common room). The young inventor had made an art of shoving and balancing her possessions into every free nook and cranny of the tiny flat. Not much was out of place. So while there were too many things for him to say it didn't look lived in, he got the sense that this was more of a place to sleep than a home. He wasn't sure if Fawcett was tidy or if she was like Ginny had been and was more often at work than here (or, in his sister's case, at the pitch or sneaking into Harry's and his old flat in London).

The spotless kitchen only further confirmed that Fawcett rarely spent time here, as did the small quantity of food in the fridge (good quality though, so she wasn't poor, but the amount was meagre). The dining room table was messier, but this only consisted of scattered work papers. These were mainly on the Snackboxes.

Ron took a closer look at these, only lightly touching the pages. Some were rough sketches with outlines of possible advertising (with slogans such as, 'A Small Headache For An Early Weekend—Get Skiving!' and 'Snackboxes: As Easy As One, Two, ACHOO!').Others were lists of potions ingredients, with some scratched out and others frenziedly underlined. Still, most of the pages had a slanted and hurried air to them. Though the handwriting of these were harder to decipher, it looked like a series of experiments to try and improve the Snackboxes. The main thing Fawcett seemed to be correcting was the extreme symptoms, like George had mentioned. Another, secondary issue was that she had changed the Snackboxes from being pills to powder that was meant to be subtly rubbed on the skin (likely under a desk or some such). The issue was, it left behind a blue residue. Fawcett had made an irritated note that it was an obnoxious, Smurf blue.

He frowned, not understanding what the last meant. But he got the gist: blue powder meant it was easier for others to spot it, especially one's boss or school healer. Skimming through the papers, while Fawcett had made some progress on both problems, it looked like the overall solutions had evaded her.

Not finding much else, Ron moved on. The bathroom and laundry area was as spotless as the kitchen. He blinked at this, not having expected the flat to be anywhere near this clean. It was at an almost Privet Drive level of spotlessness, and that one had been so damned 'impressive' that his short sights of #4 as a teenager were still stubbornly imprinted in his head. If not for the one or two areas of untidiness, he'd have guessed that Fawcett was an impulsive cleaner, that she'd never properly moved in, or that someone had swept through here to conceal a crime scene.

Fawett's bedroom made him feel better about the messy state of his own home, but only a bit. Her polka-dotted bed was unmade, a pink nightdress was flung over a chair, and her desk was littered with papers and biros. There was a quill or two as well, though it was clear what she favoured. He glanced at the papers (more snatches on her inventions and a few bills) but her attention was caught by the enchanted mirror on her bedside table.

Of all of George's products, this mirror was arguably his most profitable one. It'd started off as a two-way mirror, inspired no doubt by stories of the Marauders. But soon more and more designs had followed. These had been Ginny's fault. Having gotten obsessed with a miniature phone that Hermione used to call her parents and muggle friends, Ginny'd went right out and gotten herself one, and then got Harry one for his birthday. Her boyfriend had first been amused by her constant texts, but soon it became a bit much. So he'd gotten out and grabbed these 'mobiles' for many of the Weasleys and other friends. Under the guise of a spontaneous gift, his desperation for Ginny to bother anyone else was clear.

For George, the mobile had been love at first sight. He didn't even mind his sister's texting, eagerly giving back as much as she could throw (with a splurge of unnecessary 'emoticons'). Naturally, he figured that even such a perfect machine could be improved upon. So the two-way mirror became a touch more complex and even more marketable.

Ron picked up Fawcett's mirror, frowning as it didn't respond to his touch. So it was a model with some security. No surprise there. "Open sesame," he tried.

But no, just his reflection stayed as the mirror remained merely a mirror. George's default password failed to work. Again, it wasn't a shock Fawcett had changed it.

"Lottie. Charlotte. WWW. Skiving Snackboxes. Snackboxes," Ron tried some more, not expecting them to work. He wondered if George could get around the password? It could only be one or two words at most, but that left plenty of possibilities. "Ravenclaw. Eagles. Quidditch. Eh, what did she play? Right, Chaser. Quaffle."

He gave it up as a lost cause for now, setting the mirror back down and turning to the rest of the room. The closet was unremarkable as was her collection of purses. A spell showed that there was no obviously hidden safe, like the rest of the flat. He then turned to her sprawling bookcase, one that took up an entire wall. It wasn't shocking, not for an ex-Ravenclaw and professed bookworm.

Still, Fawcett's taste in books did surprise Ron. The girl was an adventure junkie.

Stories of espionage and K2 climbing disasters. Soldiers' memoirs ranging from the American Revolution to the First and Second Wars against Voldemort. Books on Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, and Odysseus. In all, thrillers and action-adventures stood beside fast-paced spy novels and disaster tales.

A thought occurred to him as he glanced over the collection. Taking a closer look, he examined the book spines. Many showed signs of wear and tear, but only one series was coming apart at its seams. If there was one thing his bookworm wife had taught him, it was to recognise the sure-fire sign of truly beloved novels.

"Thank you Hermione," Ron muttered, darting back to pick up the mirror and speak into it. "James Bond. Bond. James. 007. Agent 007. MI5. MI6. Uh, Fleming. Ian Fleming."

Again, none of the passwords took. Ron was about to set it down with a sigh, when he remembered whose mirror this was: an ambitious inventor's.

"Q."

Ron was about to try 'Quartermaster', but there was no need. The mirror rippled into life, no longer showing the Senior Auror's reflection. Now, it showed a list of contacts. He gave a small grin of triumph. This would come in handy. 

* * *

As soon as Ron left the building housing Fawcett's flat at the edge of Hogsmeade, with a quick turn he apparated to Auror HQ in the Ministry. More specifically, he apparated straight into the break room, causing Susan Bones to choke on her late lunch.

"Not, cough, again!" Susan choked, spitting out a crouton while sending Ron a pointed glare. "Why do you keep trying to kill me via salad?"

"I've never tried to kill you! Salad just, ah, dislikes you," Ron said weakly, not ready with a good comeback. Luckily, the room was empty of any other Aurors he'd almost maimed or seriously injured. "Besides, that lettuce awhile back was barely man-eating. Quite playful, actually, once it calmed down a bit."

"Shut it," Susan gritted out, gripping her fork as though preparing to toss it at Ron. "You're mad at Harry? Fine, take it out on him—not on all of us. Apparate into his bloody office for a change!"

"Tried that. He finally wised up and put down wards. Plus, Taylor's terrifying," Ron regained his balance and started to walk out. "But still, tsk tsk. Some Deputy Head you are. You only want me to sabotage Harry with cannibalistic lettuce! Or should I chuck croutons at him?"

Her irritated cry was cut off as he shut the door behind him. A ping of a fork hitting the door made him hurry on. When he was a safe distance away down the hallway, he took the vial with Dunbar's memory out of his pocket. In short time he'd gotten to the Pensieve room. It was rather more of a closet than a room, but it got the job done. As the stone basin took up the vast majority of the space, he'd always been a tad more weary about apparating directly to this spot. If he was off the mark at all he'd find himself dropped into a pool of liquid.

Plucking off the stopper and closing the door with his foot, Ron poured the silvery memory into the Pensieve. It flowed out across the liquid, rippling like a pebble. The vial was returned to his pocket. Holding the edge of the basin, he gingerly swayed forward. This part always bugged him, tilting at the edge of the Pensieve before vertigo took old. Some jumped right in while others conjured steps to race in with a topple. But he preferred to see what he was getting into, thank you very much.

Which, in this case, was a cascade of colours and shapes that coalesced into Hogsmeade. A corner sidewalk a few streets away from Flourish and Blotts, to be precise. Ron, holding his breath (he thought it helped with the queasiness), moved his feet off the ground and hurdled in.

After a moment of realigning himself (and letting the lights and colours properly solidify), the Senior Auror gazed around. It was dusk, with clouds bundled against the sky. Barely anyone was out walking and the entire village only just seemed to be slowly rising from sleep. Some shops had lights in them, others just a candle. One or two were opening up.

It only took a moment to find Dunbar, who was yawning and strolling in from a side alley connected to the main road. Ron walked along beside him. Almost as soon as they reached the Hogsmeade's central street, Dunbar's gaze jerked around, becoming far more awake. Rather than staring lazily at the buildings as he had been doing, his stare honed in on a girl across the pavement. His pace increased. Ron followed suit.

Fawcett was, indeed, lugging a large bag and was wearing a blue beret. Neither matched her red dress, but she didn't seem to care. She had the air of one whose thoughts were a million miles away. Tucked in the bag was what seemed like they could be the prototype Snackboxes. Maybe this was why she hadn't minimised the load or done any other spells to it.

Ron surveyed their surroundings. Aside from Dunbar's keen stare (which Fawcett was oblivious to, as the boy was following her at a distance and her mind was clearly elsewhere) no one was paying any attention to her. They barely even passed anyone else.

Within a few minutes it had begun to lightly rain. They'd passed the bookshop. Ron raised an eyebrow at this but, looking back as Dunbar stumbled on some rocks, he figured the kid was so focused on Fawcett that he hadn't noticed. With this, Ron glanced back at the girl…to be met with nothing. Dunbar was also looking back at the direction, confused.

"Stop the memory!" Ron cried out, stunned. He blinked around at the now frozen scene where there wasn't a trace of Fawcett. He was stunned she really had disappeared so quickly. "Rewind slowly. At a…dunno. Rewind it at a quarter of real time."

The scene rewound at a turtle's pace. Dunbar trudged backwards, unstumbling, with the rain lifting off his shoulders. Fawcett soon came back into view, but with something odd.

"FREEZE!" Ron yelled out, staring at the girl. Or, not at the girl: at the small beam of colour that was about to collide with her back. The spell was a light blue. Off the top of his head, the only charm that produced that colour was…

"A notice-me-not. Christ," the Senior Auror was now certain she'd been kidnapped. Kneeling down, he noted that another pair of footsteps almost perfectly mingled with the witch's. Only a few feet behind her, the dirt was compacted around two footprints, though part of the right one was being smudged by something. Maybe a cloth…or an invisibility cloak.

Cursing to himself, Ron trudged back the way they'd came, keeping his gaze on the ground. The strange footprints hadn't been following Fawcett for that long. They'd only joined her at around The Three Broomsticks, which was good, or it would've been 'out of sight' of Dunbar's memory. The footprints had come from nowhere, the first two smudged and dug deeper into the ground. Whoever it was had apparated in, likely wearing an invisibility cloak. They'd waited by The Three Broomsticks for awhile, leaning against its wall.

"Doing what?" Ron muttered to himself, staring at the footsteps. He then looked around, getting an unobstructed view of the street. The answer quickly came to him. "He was watching. So it was probably random. But why choose Fawcett when Dunbar was trailing her?"

But this answer was equally obvious. With the notice-me-not, the kidnapper wouldn't care if there was one 'potential' witness—not when Dunbar was incapable of seeing anything.

The Auror gave the footprints one last look, knowing the rain would have long washed away any the evidence. So he jogged back to where he'd left the frozen Dunbar and Fawcett, a moment from her being hexed.

"Why was she hexed?" Ron continued mumbling to himself. Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, at times like this he missed having a partner. Even if it was Harry making some unhelpfully sarcastic quip. "Stunned, sure, or a thrown portkey. But a notice-me-not? He could've apparated her away just as quickly. Unless…unless he needs her here for something?"

Without much of an option, he focussed back on Fawcett's form. He took in the beret, the bag, the tiny smile on her face, and her short hair whipping into her eyes. "Unfreeze the memory."

The scene started up again, where Ron found her gaze sliding over Fawcett, unable to focus. "Freeze again!"

This time, he looked again at the footsteps. The 'vanished' witch had walked a few more steps. Her 'stalker' had closed the distance even farther. Slowly, the Auror looked up at where he knew the girl was…

"Bloody hell," Ron cursed, his gaze shifting away again and again. He knew it would be useless to try and change the Pensieve memory. Since it followed Dunbar's perspective, anything that was imperceptible to Dunbar would be equally invisible to him. It was little help that there was some measure of wiggle room in that anything that could potentially be seen by the kid would come through. Still, even invisible people could be spotted. "Start it up again."

The two pairs of footsteps continued forward. Fawcett's pace remained unhurried, so she didn't seem to have noticed there was a spell on her. Dunbar had stopped a bit away, confusion having settled on his face. Ron felt a surge of worry, for when Dunbar walked out of sight his view of the memory would end. There were few other people around, so getting another memory was unlikely.

Within view of WWW, a tiny branch of red light could be seen for a mere moment. Ron, blinking, was only sure it'd actually happened once he rewound the memory and viewed it at a slower pace. But the spell, without a doubt, had hit Fawcett in the back. The leading footsteps stopped, a small splash of mud taking its place. The indent in the ground was about the size of a girl.

"A body-bind, then," Ron muttered, watching as a smaller indent appeared beside Fawcett likely prone body. The follower seemed to be kneeling next to her. For the barest of seconds a hand, a man's hand, flashed out. But all that it did was to toss an invisibility cloak (a second one) over Fawcett. The indents remained more or less in place. "Why make her invisible? Unless, unless he's taking off the notice-me-not. Why?"

The answer instantly struck: so Fawcett could be seen by him. The criminal needed to see the girl for some reason. But why not just apparate them both out? Ron was also getting more nervous, because Dunbar had stopped peering around and was beginning to head away.

The larger indent (Fawcett) began moving, recapturing Ron's attention. He first thought she was getting up, but the moving just increased. It was almost as though she was rolling around. Or pounding the ground. Or…

"Convulsing," Ron felt sick as the realisation came to him. The kneeling indent stayed put, as though he was watching her. He very well might have been. The Senior Auror swore, not only at this but at how the colours and shapes around him were starting to shift and sway: Dunbar was hurrying back to the bookshop and out of sight.

"Come on Dunbar. Slow down," Ron muttered, stare focussed on Fawcett. If he squinted he could just tell a third indent appearing next to the criminal. What could that be? It was small, like a child…or a large bag. Fawcett's bag? Could this be a robbery gone wrong? No, course not. Some liquid had appeared on the other side of the swishing and turning larger indent, something dark. A poison? A potion? "There's almost something. Come back here, kid. Come on, we're close."

The scene was fading fast. He was just able to catch a harsher convulsion (where the cloak lifted up just another to reveal Fawcett's shuddering hand) when the memory fell away completely. Without further ado, the Auror was knocked out of the Penisieve.

"Damn it!" Ron was tossed back into the Ministry. Before he could catch his balance he skidded forward again, gripping the stone edge of the basin with white fingers. The memory now playing was of Dunbar entering Flourish and Blotts. He knew he'd been lucky to have gotten even that much, but he wasn't feeling pleased. "Stupid Pensieve, I could almost see something. It was right effing there and I…bloody hell."

Eliciting another swear he grabbed a vial and scooped up Dunbar's memory. He stoppered the top, thoughts a whirl.

Fawcett had definitely been kidnapped. By a professional, it seemed. There was no clear motive, no ransom, and no obvious personal connection. All evidence pointed to it being a random attack. A high risk, public attack. This 'kidnapper' was reckless, a psychopath, or both. Whatever he was, it didn't look good for Fawcett…no, for Lottie. Stranger abductions were bad enough, but a potion-induced convulsion?

"Damn it," Ron sighed again, wishing this case had merely been George being paranoid. 

* * *

After grudgingly assigning Dennis to the case (giving him the notes, mirror, and file, while telling him to find her family asap), Ron glanced down Headquarters. After going back and forth between the risks of heading to Harry's office, he decided to take the safe route. So he stayed in his own office, spinning slightly in his chair.

"Expecto patronum," Ron swished his wand, smiling down at the yipping silver Jack Russell Terrier. Another flick, and the dog looked up at him attentively, waiting for the message. "Harry, put your irrational anger at me to the side and listen up. That case George brought in, about the missing girl Charlotte Fawcett? I have a memory of her being put under a notice-me-not, incapacitated, and maybe being tortured. Someone needs to be on this. If not me, someone bloody well competent. I haven't contacted the family yet, but I don't think this was personal or that we'll get a ransom demand. This was a stranger abduction and I don't have to tell you how not-good that is. I doubt this is just a kidnapping but, still, might as well release her photo to the press. I'd keep light on the details. She was captured in daylight in a public place, so that'd induce panic. Even worse, whoever took her is good. It was a methodical, thought-through abduction. So, seeing as how I'm under 'house arrest', get a team on this now. Keep this with the aurors, least until we know more."

Ron pushed his chair back, hesitating. He was regretting not biting the hex and talking to Harry in person, "Don't hold much on this next bit, but this was too professionally smooth for a first time offender. They've done this before. You know the sort, they don't just start with a high-risk abduction. I'm not positive but…listen, we're either missing earlier crimes, or we should be on the lookout for a spree. It's a miracle we caught this before the 24-hour mark and that we have a partial witness. Which makes me wonder if this has happened to anyone else and their case went cold. Just get a team on this now."

He sent the Patronus off. Then, remembering something, he cursed and spelled up another silver dog.

"Forgot to mention," Ron quickly said. "Because Angie had the bright idea of breaking into Fawcett's flat, ignore any spells by her or me at the scene. I haven't gotten her memory on that yet, so someone needs to talk to her. Dennis has the rest of the preliminary paperwork and memories, bother him about that."

He sent it off, then conjured a third and final Patronus. "Lisa? Hey, it's Ron. I talked to Harry and you should be getting a team, but listen. You ought to speak to Gladys Davis, owner of Magical Menagerie. It might be nothing, but she's been finding magical creatures' bodies around Hogsmeade. Davis won't want to talk, but all you've got to do is insult my family and she'll open up. Seriously, just rant about us mad Weasleys and Potters. If that doesn't work, compliment her animals. Sorry in advance for sending you there."


	5. A Stag's Missive

"'I had proven, as a very young man, that power was my weakness and my temptation. It is a curious thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it. Those who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and take up the mantle because they must, and find to their own surprise that they wear it well.'"  
Albus Dumbledore— _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

"Funny thing," a sarcastic voice rolled out from behind the Senior Auror, "my office is right down the hall. Last I checked, it hadn't moved."

"Thought I wasn't to bug you," Ron didn't miss a beat. Turning from his paperwork (or, actually, turning from the Quidditch posters where he'd been having an argument with the Tornado's Keeper) he swivelled his chair around. He eyed the unamused man leaning against his open doorway. Harry's arms were crossed and he held a grudgingly interested look. "Guess you got the message?"

"What I'm curious about," Harry gritted out, his extra-ruffled hair being a clear sign of his annoyance, "is how you gleamed all that from just talking to George."

"It was an enlightening talk."

"Where you interviewed witnesses around Hogsmeade and searched Fawcett's flat without a partner. Yeah, sure sounds enlightening," Harry sighed, clearly having expected this. "Look, whatever. You're sure she's missing?"

"Have a Pensieve memory to prove it," his teasing fell to the wayside. "Dennis ought to be contacting her family."

"He has," the dark-haired man said. "This is news to them, they're panicked and coming in soon. They don't seem to know anything."

Ron felt the small hope he'd had sink. "No ransom demands?"

"None," Harry's frown twitched into a scowl. Stepping farther into the office he sat on the desk, ignoring a chair. He waved off some chess pieces that had hopped over the moment he'd entered. "You said this wasn't a personal attack. Any proof or is it a feeling?"

"Aside from how Fawcett has no enemies? She was targeted randomly," Ron leaned back, twirling his wand in his fingers. "See, her flat's in the outskirts of Hogsmeade. If I was trying to kidnap her, I'd have been following her around and would know there's a large, unpopulated area she has to walk through before arriving in the village." The spinning stopped as he sent Harry a look. "If this was a premeditated attack on her, specifically on her, the criminal's an idiot for taking her on Hogsmeade's High Street."

"It was early in the morning," Harry pointed out. "Not many people around."

"There were enough," Ron heaved a sigh at the reminder of the less-than-productive interviews. "This was a crime of opportunity, I bet you anything. Done by a professional, which is what's scaring me. Taking a girl in daylight, in public, without immediately raising alarms? Hell, breaking into her flat would be a fair sight easier. This guy's good."

Harry inclined his head, peering speculatively at his friend. His words were chosen carefully. "You don't think there'll be a ransom."

"Unless the family's hiding something, not really," Ron frowned. "Hope I'm wrong, but come on. We have a twenty-something girl with not a lot of galleons to her name and with no clear criminal ties. It's been hours since she's been taken and not a peep from the kidnappers. I hate to say this, but I don't think it's just a kidnapping."

Harry lapsed into silence, mouth pinched in thought, "She really vanished without a trace? No clues at all?"

"Nothing. It's preliminary, sure, and there might be a lead somewhere. But we shouldn't focus on Fawcett herself. I mean personally. Victimology, yeah? Get behaviour analysis on making a profile of the kidnapper. Because unless Fawcett's dad is a secret drug lord, we aren't going to get far without it."

"Or unless there's another kidnapping," Harry said what Ron was thinking, a worried frown in place. "Her photo's already been released to the Prophet, her mum approved it. A retraction's always loads better than being too slow. But still, best to keep light on the details. There's no need to incite a panic, what with missing people already being rare enough." His frown deepened. "Christ, I hope her family's hiding some dark past."

"Or maybe the kidnappers are slow with the ransom demand," Ron wished he could believe this. "I'm getting ahead of myself. Especially since your lordship's ruled I'm not on the case."

Harry was torn from his thoughts. He looked at his friend askance. "Uh, 'lordship'?"

"Y'know, tabloid nonsense. Lord Potter-Black? You inheriting the House of Merlin? Any of this ringing a bell?" Ron settled into his sure-fire way to cheer up: taking the mick out of Harry.

The Head Auror blinked, taken aback. "…what?"

"Blimey, you're slow," Ron said. "Have you ever even picked up Witch Weekly?"

"Not sure I want to," he retorted before shifting gears. "Also, I never said you weren't on this case."

This took him by surprise. "What now?"

"I said you weren't doing anything dangerous without a partner," Harry clarified, his annoyance clear. "Until then Terry and Dennis have the Fawcett kidnapping. I should assign you someone tomorrow, so don't get too comfortable."

Ron hesitated at this news, having a feeling he ought to be worried about this. Especially with The Glint in Harry's eyes. The Glint always spelled trouble. He'd known this since he'd gotten roped into 'following the spiders'. "Who's my new partner?"

"Someone who you'll be stuck with for a very, very long time," Harry leaned in, not giving any room for argument (physically or figuratively). "I don't care how you try to get rid of him, it's not going to work. I can promise that much, because this is the last straw. You've managed to become even more annoying than the paparazzi—no, I'm not joking! I'm sick of dealing with this. If you're anything like a professional, you'll put whatever bs reason you're doing this aside to do your job! Which, if you're right, is about to involve a blasted crime spree. SO YOU'RE GETTING ALONG WITH YOUR PARTNER!"

A silence descended from the sudden rant.

Ron slowly ventured an answer, "Would help if you mentioned who this partner is."

"Ron!"

"I mean, it almost seems like you're being mysterious for a reason," he puzzled out, not very concerned he was riling up the 'Wizarding Saviour'. "Which you surely couldn't be, as my wonderful behaviour could only warrant an absolutely spiffing partner. So is it a good surprise? Like a surprise gift…I'm getting a present? Wicked. Is this you saying I'm so amazing that I can work solo and get a new broom on MLE's sickle?"

"I hate you."

"Also," Ron continued without a shred of shame, "gift or no gift, shouting at aurors? HR might have something to say about that."

"RON!"

* * *

After Harry left in a huff, Ron paused. It was only now that he realised he'd been waiting around, vaguely waiting for an update. So with that done? Aside from arguments with Quidditch posters (a rather productive activity, that), he was out of things to do. It was an odd feeling. Many other aurors would give their left hand for a free day, but he just felt bored. It'd be one thing if he was procrastinating or waiting for something, but just purely twiddling his fingers?

Ron scowled at this, leaning back in his chair. His feet were leaned up and crossed on his desk as he puzzled out what to do. But it didn't take long for an obvious remedy to come to him. Tossing his legs back down, he quickly got up and headed to his wife's office.

Half-way there, he remembered she'd had another plan for today. So, shifting his destination, he aimed for the MLE training rooms and lecture halls.

Ducking into the back entrance for the main hall, Ron paused to listen. Shaking his head at the silence, he instead headed for the second main lecture hall. Sliding into the back rooms of that one a sonorused voice hit him. Grinning, he wove around the backstage material until he reached the curtain. Keeping to the side and out of sight, he pushed the cloth aside just enough to catch sight of the woman onstage talking to a packed lecture theatre:

"—known as dangerous, of course. Today, much of their terror has been reduced to legends. Tales to scare children, as well as new recruits. It is seen as a problem of the past, long since taken care of. A boogeyman," Hermione spoke rhythmically, a small frown playing across her features. "It is almost overlooked that some known Death Eaters still remain at large. Not a lot, but they are arguably the craftiest ones, having been able to remain fugitives for so long. There is a reason these three are nearly the top 'Undesirables'. It is difficult to overstate how dangerous these people are."

"Cassiopeia Sevine," a picture of a pretty blonde filled the screen. Instead of hiding from the picture, she was beaming over her shoulder at the camera. The sundress sloping her shoulders left little to the imagination. Her blue eyes held a twinkle while her hourglass body had gotten more than a few wizards killed. "Undesirable Number 5. Only 25, she would typically be described as a neo-Death Eater if not for two factors. Firstly, she was one of the last recruited before Voldemort's fall, so she bears the Dark Mark. Secondly, she's far more dangerous than most neo-Death Eaters. Working as a spy, her specialty is…" Hermione coughed, "is sleeping with the enemy. She's Veritaserumed more MLE agents than I can count, and the lucky ones are merely obliviated afterwards. Sevine uses the information gleamed to partake in her other speciality," the picture shifted to a smouldering building. Ron hollowly recognised it as the remains of an Auror field office in Cardiff: he'd been one of the first responders. "Bombing. Many of you will remember the events in Wales five years ago.

"Male or female, do not be caught off-guard by her," Hermione warned. "Sevine fully believes in the 'cleansing' of humanity and, like the neo-Death Eaters, has adapted her views with Aryan doctrine. She is a cold-blooded killer and wouldn't hesitate to destroy every last one of us. She's also slippery. We've found evidence that she hides out between crimes by going through a stream of rich benefactors. After one has served his purpose, she slits his throat and moves to the next one. It seems she might have returned to Ireland, her home country, but she is frequently spotted in the UK. She's known to have former IRA contacts."

"Next, Marcus Flint," Hermione gave a scowl as his picture popped up (one echoed by Ron). "Undesirable Number 4. Born and raised in Britain, I had the misfortune to know him at Hogwarts. Only faintly, thank heavens, but I can assure you that he's been a sadistic zealot since he was a teenager. Working as a Death Eater through the Second War, he shied away from battles but was pivotal in recruiting young, disenfranchised men and women to his cause. Avoiding capture after Voldemort's defeat, he continued in what he'd been doing. He is now known as one of the founders and the main facilitator of the neo-Death Eater Movement. He is not known for many murders, but is highly dangerous and should not be approached. With that being said," she reluctantly continued, "Flint is the only one of these three who we would prefer to capture alive. Interrogating him could produce a wealth of information about his group."

"Thirdly, Rodolphus Lestrange," another flick, another picture. This one was of an older man, normal and unspectacular. Salt and pepper hair with occasional black strands, rough skin that looked hard even through the picture, and bored but sharp brown eyes. He was lightly frowning at the camera. "Undesirable Number 3. Once known as merely being the husband of Bellatrix Lestrange, one of Voldemort's inner circle, further documents and testimony have revealed that both spouses were high in the Death Eater hierarchy," Hermione paused, a sick expression appearing. "To most accurately explain his crimes, it's best to make an allusion to another. You're all at least familiar World War II? I'm not talking about Grindelwald and his persecutions. Josef Mengele was a high ranking muggle Nazi during the war. Within the cruelties of the Holocaust, he experimented on prisoners, carrying out horrid atrocities 'in the name of science'. Lestrange's crimes were similar. He operated at Azkaban throughout the Second War, experimenting on the muggleborns illegally imprisoned there. While believing that purebloods were superior to others, he thought that he could 'purify' wizards even more. Or, perhaps, truly 'cleanse' the blood. He took on a series of experiments, each more gruesome than the last. Some of the victims' had full-blood transfusions with dead purebloods, resulting in blood poisonings and hideous deaths. Others were fed poisons to make their blood boil within their skin. Others still had their blood mixed with Veela, dementors, dragons, and the like to see if Lestrange could create a 'better' wizard. It all revolved around trying to increase magical power, with no thought to the victim's safety." She coughed, pausing to gather herself. "Needless to say, this monster is the reason so few were rescued from Azkaban after the war. He's been quiet since, staying almost entirely underground, but he is one of the most prolific mass murderers in history."

"If spotted, you are not to approach any of these three! They are considered to be armed and highly dangerous, and you are to call for backup immediately. Hell, call for the entire cavalry. They are the last true remnants of the Death Eaters and, one day, they will be brought to justice. But I wouldn't want any of you to join them in the morgue."

On that cheery note, Hermione nodded at the stunned crowd, gathered up her pages, and click-clacked on her heels off the stage.

Ron, waiting in a side alcove backstage, snickered at how the frozen audience hadn't begun talking again. Seeing his wife was almost at him, he popped out, "Had fun scaring the newbies?"

"RON!" Hermione jolted back, papers flying. Shock gave way to annoyance after a few moments, and she gave him a peeved look as she drew her hand away from her pumping heart. "Merlin, don't do that!"

"Don't do what? Say hi to my wife?"

"Don't sneak up on me!" she gave a gentle beat on his chest, staring at him accusingly. She seemed to have forgotten that her lecture notes were now scattered around the floor. "Scared me half to death, you git!"

"Overreact much?" Ron raised an eyebrow.

Hermione groaned, her irritation not lessening, "I just finished a lecture about terrifying killers and the Second War. Then, walking back through the dark, a huge figure leapt out at me! How am I overreacting?"

Ron stopped, looking at her askance. "Huge?"

"You're tall," she sighed. Then, remembering the notes, she whisked out her wand and swept them back into her hands.

"Is this you telling me I should go on a diet?" Ron bit back a grin as his tone calmed her.

"No, I meant you're tall!" Hermione snorted, finally relinquishing her glare. "Skinny as a rail, too, which you very well know. Must you salt the wound?"

"Come on, you're gorgeous," he gave her a kiss, wrapping his arms around her. Though he shortly after pulled away to talk, he remained close enough that their noses were touching as their eyes shone. "I wasn't having a go. You're beautiful."

"With a belly," she murmured, irritation gone. The papers were nestled between them, just barely still caught in her hold.

"A beautiful belly," Ron gently smirked at her. He leaned closer, resting his cheek against hers and talking into her hair. "The most stunning belly I've ever seen, actually, so you—"

"Not that I'm complaining," Hermione cut in, "but did you only come in to terrify me and snog?"

"Terrify you and shag was my original plan," he gave her a soppy grin. "It's nice and dark in here, after all. Far enough away from the newbies you just petrified…"

"Ron."

He shifted, properly facing her again. "Alright, I was bored. I figured I'd see you and cheer up. Though, might've gotten that wrong with listening to the lecture. Not to say it wasn't nice. Was very, y'know, engaging."

"'Depressing' is the word you're after," Hermione scoffed, though she did smile back. "I can't wait until these Death Eater talks are a distant memory."

"The trainees like it. Think it's exciting," though Ron completely agreed with her. She knew this, so only answered with an incredulous eye roll. He changed the topic before she could decide that, actually, she did feel like arguing, thank you very much. Because then he'd be forced to play devil's advocate, which normally would be fine, but he really wasn't in the mood for it—especially when it came to talk of Death Eaters. "Aside from lectures, how has your day been?"

"Blissfully boring," she sent him a knowing, weary look. "The only odd thing was when my irate best friend interrupted my lunch. Again. All to rant about you."

"Huh."

"Why can't you two play nice?" Hermione bemoaned, becoming more frustrated as she recalled the hassle of the past few months. "I'm tired of getting caught in the middle, all because you have too much time on your hands."

"Hey now, we aren't trying to catch you in the middle—"

"Of course you are! Maybe not on purpose, but that's what always happens," she sent him a peeved look. He found it oddly hilarious that they'd been kissing mere minutes ago…though, honestly, this described their relationship to a tea. "You get upset about something so you get passive aggressive. Harry gets pissed off at you because you're pissed off at him, so he gives you the cold shoulder. Then you become mad about that and take it a step farther, trying to get him to react. Which the stubborn man never does, but as you're equally stubborn the stakes keep rising until you're both at each others' throats! And guess who, time and time again, is stuck in the middle of it?"

"Ginny?" Ron took an involuntary step back as Hermione's glare hit him. "Kidding, kidding! You have the patience of a saint. But for the record? I'm not trying to get you caught up in this, I swear."

"I'm sure," Hermione said tightly. "So you mean to say you haven't been bothering me incessantly to get Harry to resign?"

"To demote himself, not resign," Ron corrected. "Which is for his own good, you know he's in denial about liking the job. Harry and bureaucracy? Come on. It's like a bad joke."

"Ron…"

"Hey, if it keeps me from having another rubbish partner, even better," Ron nodded. "Can't you see this is the best for everyone?"

Hermione rubbed her brow, closing her eyes. "What I can see is that his job is none of your business. Nor is it mine."

"To be fair," he tried another approach, "Harry's trying to make it your business."

"By complaining to me to try and make you back off?" she reopened her eyes. "Then yes, you're right. It's rather unnerving how well you've managed to get under his skin."

Ron couldn't keep back a small grin at the last. He was rather proud at having managed the 'impossible' task of ruffling Harry's feathers.

Hermione didn't miss his smile, "Please, please don't tell me you think that's an accomplishment."

"Isn't it?"

"Ron!" she wasn't even surprised.

"I mean, it's a small list, isn't it?" Ron continued. "How many people can say they've pissed off Boy Wonder and lived to tell the table? Usually, him getting annoyed means someone's head's being blasted off."

"He's never beheaded anyone," Hermione said tiredly.

"Figure of speech. Analogical."

"Not analogical," she said.

"Metaphorical?"

"Try an exaggeration," Hermione stated drily.

"You know what I mean. Point is, if Harry would see the light I'd stop annoying him."

"For god's sake, he likes his job!"

"You ever see pictures of Robards through the years? Went full grey within a year of becoming Head. Aged overnight. You want that to happen to Harry?"

Hermione eyed him tiredly. "You must be joking."

"Could've sworn I saw some silver strands on him a few weeks back. Then, next time I noticed, they were all gone. Hermione," he said with utter seriousness, "I think Harry's dying his hair. Hear me out, it gets worse! Before you know it, this job will give him wrinkles before he's thirty. So, really, the only solution is demotion."

"Ron," she said more quietly, "sweetheart, Harry likes his job. He hasn't gone grey. The only person, and I mean the only person, with a problem with this is you. Which I understand, truly. You miss working with Harry. But it's not as though he's left the force."

"You're missing the point," Ron strode on, ignoring Hermione's groan. "Our best friend's in denial, yeah? It's our job to bring him to his senses. Ginny'll be no help, being behind this rubbish—"

"They both agreed on this!"

"—but you and me? He'll listen to us. If not, Plan B's coming along brilliantly."

She took a deep, calming breath (though this wasn't doing the trick). "You're referring to your 'plan' of getting Harry so fed up with being Head Auror that he returns to the field to save his own sanity?"

"Exactly!"

"I mean this with love," Hermione said succinctly, "but you are the absolute worst friend I could possibly imagine."

"Best friend, not friend," Ron corrected. "What's that muggle line? A friend bails you out of gaol, but a best friend made you do the crime."

She blinked at him. "You, you've butchered that phrase! Also, can we go one day without talking about Harry? Just one, for the sake of my sanity."

"Hence, me," he cheerily pointed at himself, ignoring his wife's statement. "Best friend. Partner in crime. Mastermind, even."

"You're trying to drive him mad!" Hermione finally lost it.

"For his own good. Don't leave out the important part," Ron paused. "Or that it's working. I'm proud of that bit."

* * *

After 'making up' with Hermione (for an hour or two, give or take), Ron figured that—house arrest or not—he really ought to make sure there were no changes to ongoing cases. He knew the Fawcett case wasn't actually his, but…

So it was that the late afternoon saw him strolling back through auror offices. It wasn't difficult to find Dennis Creevey. The man had forsaken his desk and had instead spread a cascade of papers across the floor, bundled into not-quite-neat piles.

Ron had been a spot nervous that the younger wizard would be holding a grudge, but the redhead's entrance was met with sheer relief. Apparently Terry had made a quick getaway to interview Fawcett's family, leaving Dennis to go through the many, many mounds of financials. For a little help, he was happy to discuss the case.

Still, much to the Senior Auror's disappointment, there wasn't much more to reveal. He wasn't surprised by this, but it was disheartening to learn there still hadn't been a ransom and the family had no criminal ties. Nor did they have much money, or have anything else that would be appealing to would-be kidnappers. The contact list on Fawcett's mirror also hadn't revealed anything. So, until they had more to go on, they had to work on the theory that it was a stranger abduction

Almost as bad, the area Ron had curtained off in Hogsmeade had revealed nothing, nor had the surrounding alleys. The only good bit of news was that they'd verified that Angelina was innocent of everything but a harmless break-in, so there was that.

An hour later (as even for an 'ordinary' family like the Fawcetts, their financials really were that messy to go through), Ron slouched back to his office. Swinging open the door, he must've missed a proximity charm. For barely a minute after he'd slumped into his chair and turned back to the Quidditch poster arguments, quick footsteps followed him in.

There wasn't even time to react before a file slammed onto Ron's desk, held by an unimpressed fist. He merely looked askance at the hand, a few thoughts hitting him at once. First off, only another auror or hit-wizard could barge into his office. Secondly, if they were trying to hurt him he'd have already been hexed. Thirdly? The angrily clenched fist was a very familiar fist.

Ron was vaguely-not-really surprised he could recognise the man just from his hand. It was more disconcerting that shocking, actually. He made a mental note that he was maybe spending too much time with the bloke. It was only after these contemplations that he twisted in his seat to gaze up at the furious man, "You've gotten quiet, mate. Really quiet. How'd you even—"

"You were behind the snidgets?" Harry growled out, his eyes hard and narrowing. If Ron was anyone else he'd be more than a bit terrified of the glare. Frankly, it was pretty impressive. He wondered if the dark-haired man practiced that expression in the mirror. "Seriously? They attacked me in front of the press!"

"Didn't do it. Besides, they hardly 'attached' you. Nibbled, maybe," Ron shrugged, turning to his desk. Harry grabbed his shoulder and twisted him back around. This merely elicited a sigh from the redhead. "Fine, blimey. If you want to be melodramatic, be my guest."

"You're doing this!" Harry hissed, now making no attempt to hide his prickling anger. "Why have you been pranking me?"

"Why do you think I'm behind it?" Ron squinted, wondering why Harry's expression was strangely familiar. He had to repress a snigger as it dawned on him. The balance of furiously narrowed eyes, flared nostrils, and pinched cheeks had absolutely come from his sister. "Don't tell me you connected it with the snitch…which was an accident, obviously. Or no, it was Taylor, wasn't it. Her and her barmy theories. Did you know there's even a bet going around?"

"That's it!" Harry exclaimed. Maybe Ron had been less than successful in hiding his guffaw, because the clench on his shoulder tightened. "Here I was, thinking maybe I should be nice with your new partner. But no, I knew I got off too easy. Ever since Robards retired as Head you've been maddening!"

"Hey now, don't think I'm jealous," Ron tried to stifle his chuckling at the thought that Harry had knowingly or subconsciously borrowed Ginny's 'raging expression'. "You took the promotion. More luck to you, I say. I even turned down your offer of Deputy! Too much bureaucracy for my taste, you know that."

"THAT'S THE POINT!" Harry yelled, not caring who overheard. 'Who' being at least half of the eavesdropping-happy department, what with the door being open and people peering out of their offices. "You're always moaning that I'm mental for taking on more paperwork. Is this some stupid, convoluted way to make me agree with you? Throw lawsuits and snidgets at me until I hightail it back to the field?"

Ron eyed him. "Okay, wow. First off? I have no idea what you're on about and I didn't set any bloody snidgets on you. Secondly, or thirdly: whatever this is, you're really overthinking it."

"Uh huh. Maybe I am overthinking this," Harry stared at him for a moment, eyes narrowing even further. "You've seriously just been taking the mick? You git! Driving your partners away isn't a prank on me!"

This time, Ron couldn't hide his snort. This was all the confirmation Harry needed.

"It's not funny! Stop laughing you—eff it. _STUPEFY!_ "

* * *

After a rousing round of 'dodge-the-spells-and-avoid-being-maimed-or-seriously-injured' (while shooting a few of his own at the Head Auror, neither much caring that the duel had entered the hallway and escalated beyond control thanks to missed hexes and a horde of trigger-happy Aurors), Ron felt that was enough work for the day. So he snuck around the ongoing battle (flinging up a table to keep Dmitri's volley at Euan (in retaliation for a poorly aimed bat-boogey from a trainee) from hitting him, then tossing the broken wooden leg at the enraged Harry to keep him from following). Slamming the main door of the Auror offices, he made a quick getaway as the screams echoed behind him. Skidding around a corner, he made a dash for the hit-wizards' offices.

Getting there, he entered and loudly slammed the door shut, leaning against it to catch his breath. The noise caused a series of heads (and not a few wands) to poke out of offices and cubicles.

"Nothing to, to see here," Ron caught his breath, waving his wand dismissively as he did so. Straightening, he sent a paranoid look behind him. "Though, so you know, I'd avoid going to the Auror offices for a bit."

He paused.

"'A bit' meaning a few hours," he admitted, still having the hit-wizards' attentions. "Make that all evening, actually and, you know what? I'll just be hid…ah, in the Director's office for awhile. If a furious Head Auror comes in here, you've never met me yeah?"

He was met with blank stares.

"Right. Good," Ron chuckled nervously, sending another look at the door for good measure. He made a fast pace to Hermione's office, walking hurriedly past any who started to question him. "Nothing to see here. Go back to doing hit-wizarding stuff. Y'know, hitting…criminals? Hopefully not each other. Which would never happen to the Aurors, nope. Course not. Who'd suggest that? Who's hexing each other?"

"Ah, Ron?" Adam Vance, Hermione's secretary, called out as Ron barrelled past his desk. But the latter paid no attention and swept into his wife's office, slamming the door behind him.

"Hi love," Ron said even more nervously as the startled witch stared at him. "So, you're going to hear some stories pretty soon. I want to make it absolutely clear that, no matter what Harry claims, he's the one who destroyed the Auror offices.

Hermione's head merely hit her desk with a groan.

"Yeah," Ron rubbed the back of his neck, vaguely sheepish. He also helped himself to a seat. "I've been getting that reaction a lot these days."

* * *

Another memo. Another snitch memo that smacked him in the face.

Then smacked him again. Hermione waved her quill at him in a 'you-had-this-coming' way, wholly unsympathetic.

Ron grabbed the thing before it could strike him a third time, eyeing the folded note. If an origami snitch could snigger, he would swear that this one was. Because of this, the paper was unfolded warily.

He was happy there wasn't a latent jinx or a potion laced on the centre. But as he read Harry's messy handwriting, any relief he'd felt flew out the window.

"Do I want to know?" Hermione asked, properly looking up from her work. While she'd made a panicked check of the auror offices half an hour ago, she'd returned after a few minutes. She'd then sent Ron an incredulous look, saying that he'd better hide out here or Harry might actually murder him. The redhead had happily acquiesced. Until now, with the arrival of an origami snitch message.

Dropping the note in the trash and grabbing his wand, Ron curtly produced a Patronus.

"Harry," Ron addressed the silver terrier tightly, not even calmed by the small animal's yipping. Hermione stared at him. "you're horrible at pranks. Absolute rubbish. Or if this is a bluff, you're rubbish at that too. Or maybe, just maybe, you're being serious. In that case, you've lost your bloody mind. Whatever it is? I've thrown your note in the bin where it belongs. Tell me who my actual new partner is."

He waved the Patronus off with a scowl.

Hermione blinked. Then summoned the note from the bin and read it, only to burst out laughing. She was still in helpless guffaws when a ghostly stag sprinted into her office.

"I'm the one who's lost his mind?" Harry's terse voice rolled out of the stag. The animal itself seemed about ready to kick Ron, and Hermione managed to quiet to hiccoughs in order to listen. "Me? That's it! You wanted to get me angry? Congrats, you bloody well have! So for your 'prize', you get the Fawcett kidnapping and McLaggen. That's right, McLaggen! I wasn't joking. You get an indestructible partner to babysit. The ponce eats doxy eggs for a laugh—whatever you throw at him won't work! You're stuck with Cormac Effing McLaggen! He's not going to quit and he's not going to care what you do to him. He's the one who'll drive you barmy, AND YOU'LL DESERVE EVERY BIT OF IT!"

The stag Patronus gave a final huff of derision. All but smirking at Ron's gobsmacked face, it merrily galloped away.

Hermione's sympathy lasted all of seconds before she burst into another round of giggles.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm imagining Harry gleefully cackling in his office, picturing Ron and McLaggen taking each other out. Which, I mean, of course Harry doesn't want to get his best friend killed via flung beater bat. But, then again, Ron really has been that annoying.


	6. A Falcon's Flight

**A/N:** Lo, my lovely readers! Sorry for the wait on this chapter. I had to make quite a few rewrites to try and get the dialogue down. On that note, please let me know if I did Cormac McLaggen justice! Who knew he was this tricky to write?

* * *

"If three bells ring in the Tower of Bray,

Ding dong! Your love's gone away.

Ding dong! Three bells today in the Tower of Bray.

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong…"

— _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

The first day Ron was stuck with Cormac McLaggen, he learned that the man was oblivious to sarcasm. Though this had the potential to be ripe for exploitation and hilarity, Ron couldn't find it that funny. Not when the Fawcett family and friends interviews were coming up with nothing. The stupid comments were also hard to stomach as they were accompanied by a pompous voice and hardy, camaraderie slaps on his back.

* * *

 _"Weatherby! Shocked we haven't met."_

 _"You're kidding me."_

 _"Must be thanking your lucky stars, getting me as partner. All chuffed about it, I can tell."_

 _"Yeah. Yeah, thrilled. Though it's a funny thing, McLaggen. My name's Weasley. Has been all my life."_

 _"Huh. You're positive about the name? Because I met a red-haired chap in magical transport who went by Weath—"_

 _"You've known me for years, shut the hell up."_

* * *

Ron would have thought McLaggen was taking the mick, except he seemed so irritatingly certain that he must be correct. Having to argue about what his own name was for hours understandably put Ron off-balance and in a foul mood. It took everything he had to attempt to focus on the Fawcett case. Plans to scare off yet another partner were going to be put on a momentary hold. Yet when he was forced to 'release' the wards over the Hogsmeade crime scene due to a lack of clues (while the notices in the _Prophet_ likewise revealed nothing), combined with McLaggen's grating voice in his ear, his bad mood escalated.

When Ron caught sight of Harry's smirking grin as he left the office, his resolve hardened to end this mess before it could truly begin. So he made a quick stop at WWW (to ask more questions about Fawcett, naturally).

The second day, Ron snuck one of George's 'Critters' Cacophonies' concoctions into McLaggen's drink. He impatiently waited to hear him start mewing like a lamb, a _sonorus_ at the edge of his lips…

* * *

 _"ROARRR!"_

 _"…what?"_

 _"RRAAWWR!"_

 _"Merlin's left buttocks._ Quietus! _"_

 _"RRROOOOOOAAAAARRR!"_

 _"How'd that make you even louder? Why are you roaring! You were supposed to…to…he switched the packages. George switched the bloody packages!"_

 _"RRRROOAARR?"_

 _"Shut up, you big oaf. Yes, I get it, you sound like a lion! Don't look so delighted."_

 _"RRRRRRRAAAAAAWWWWRRRR!"_

* * *

Through his frustration at the failed prank, Ron resolved to remember (yet again) that his brother could never be trusted. A follow-up questioning made it clear that Harry had gotten to George first and had 'suggested' a switch in packages.

The third day, the roaring had ceased. McLaggen took advantage of this by making sleazy comments when he saw a photo of Hermione. Ron turned him into a lamppost.

* * *

 _"Your partner's missing."_

 _"Huh, would you look at that."_

 _"Where is he?"_

 _"How am I supposed to know? I'm not his babysitter."_

 _"Ron, what did you do to him?"_

 _"Who says I did anything? The git probably ate another hoard of Doxy eggs. Check Mungo's."_

 _"Tell me you didn't kill him."_

 _"I didn't kill him."_

 _"Because you know how much paperwork that would—"_

 _"Really, didn't kill him. Also, relax! You're getting paranoid in your old age. Shame how the mind goes first."_

 _"I'm 26,_ younger than you! _"_

* * *

By the end of the first week, McLaggen had recovered from the transfiguration and had returned to the office. Ron immediately hit him with a _silencio_. This went unnoticed by the victim for a few blessed hours, until Harry returned his voice before lunch. More than just Ron was annoyed by this, but as many of the aurors were still bristling over the near-destruction of headquarters the previous week, he found that his allies were few and far between.

With the start of the second week, though relations with the other aurors had improved, Ron was losing steam. As much as he hated to admit it, nothing seemed to phase McLaggen. It was then that he wondered if, maybe, he was being a touch unfair. Even though the man was loud and rude, McLaggen wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been at Hogwarts. Maybe he ought to give the bloke a chance. After all, there must be a reason he'd made it into the aurors. Also, far more important than McLaggen, the Fawcett case was going nowhere. With the lack of any clues, the kidnapping was going to go cold very quickly. Though her family was continuing to plaster the _Prophet_ with cries for information, the Senior Auror was even less hopeful. But this, if nothing else, convinced him that he really ought to give his partner a shot.

Two hours after Ron's decision to extend an olive branch, McLaggen groped Hermione. Ron would have ensured that no one ever found the wizard's body, but his wife beat him to the punch.

With the 'lamppost' returned to the corner outside the Ministry, Ron learned from his supremely annoyed spouse why McLaggen still had a job. Seems that being related to half a dozen Wizengamot members had its perks, especially as his uncle Tiberius McLaggen was Chief Warlock.

The positive to this was that Hermione's impatience at last broke into fury. Ron assumed this meant she'd force Harry to see reason and give him a new partner. This didn't happen. But she _did_ give him carte blanche to do whatever he wanted to do to McLaggen, so long as the pompous auror had quit within the month (or was in a mental ward or gaol, she hinted heavily). Ron cheerfully took up the challenge.

Still, even he grudgingly had to admit, their cases were more important. So driving McLaggen out was placed in the same category as driving Harry barmy: highest priority…aside from life-or-death situations, dangerous cases, taking care of Rosie, playing with Rosie, 'playing' with Hermione, and convincing his blossoming germaphobe wife that a few sneezes wasn't going to harm the baby.

So, yes. Highest priority.

* * *

"A looker, ain't she," Cormac McLaggen whistled, gazing at a photo in the _Prophet_. It was on the third page, today. It'd been the headline article for the past few weeks. Unsurprising, as the missing girl was pretty, her mother was shrill but desperate, kidnappings were rare, and the paper's 'favourite' tabloid figures were trying to find her.

Ron didn't glance up from the parchment he was reading. The only sign he'd heard was that his grip became tight on the sides.

"Fawcett, I mean," McLaggen barely paused. "Her mum's plastered the paper. Merlin Weasley, you seen this photo? Of her in a little gold dress…"

"The one of her at graduation? Her recent graduation from _Hogwarts_?" Ron at last answered, though still didn't look at him. He didn't bother keeping the sarcasm out of his words, figuring it'd go over the man's head. He also wasn't sure how any of this could be news to McLaggen. When had he last picked up the paper? "Funny. Thought you'd date even younger."

McLaggen guffawed. "Raiding the cradle, you know me!"

Ron silently cursed Harry, cursed Robards for hiring McLaggen, cursed 'Uncle Tiberius', cursed Hermione for not firing him, and cursed Harry again for being a prat with no sense of humour. "Sure. Any thoughts on the case, other than how Fawcett looks?"

"Come on, it's obvious."

"Really," Ron sighed. Still, after weeks of dead leads and having to put up with McLaggen, he'd welcome a laugh. "How's it obvious?"

"What I've been saying from the start," he said dismissively. "She ran away!"

Ron turned to stare at him. "Are you serious? McLaggen, we have a memory of her being kidnapped."

McLaggen waved this away. "Some footprints and a blurry outline. Like that'd hold in court."

"It's not supposed to hold in…" Ron took a deep breath, trying to keep his impatience at bay. He sent another mental hex at Harry, "fine, fine! In this theory of yours, why would Fawcett have run off?"

"Eh," he shrugged, "she seems an easy girl. Ran off with a lad or the like."

"Leaving behind all her possessions?"

"She took her purse!"

Ron sent him a long, hard look. He didn't even want to know why the other man thought she'd be an 'easy girl'. Yet his retort was interrupted by two memos spinning under the door into his office. One aimed for him, the other for McLaggen.

This time, the note wasn't folded like a snitch. Nor did it try to break Ron's nose. Instead, it was an origami crane that flapped in front of him, waiting to be read. Seeing as how his partner was already ripping through his, he made a deliberate effort to unfold it calmly.

It was from Taylor. Harry was busy showing a witness to an interview room, and both his presence and McLaggen's were required. While it said there might be another kidnapping, it was vague concerning who the witness and victim were. The only thing even vaguely concrete was that something taken from Fawcett might be at the new crime scene.

Ron glanced back up in time to see McLaggen barreling out the door. He gave a single thought to waiting a minute (let Harry deal with the prat and hope the latter finally got himself fired), but reluctantly dismissed this. Tossing the crane in the bin, he grabbed his notepad and more sedately headed out of his office.

It wasn't hard to find them, seeing as how the Head Auror and auror were standing outside of an interview room. More importantly, McLaggen's raucous voice carried for a mile.

"—course it's not related," McLaggen was brusquely waving a hand close to Harry's irritated face. "Ridiculous. Fawcett ran off herself! So unless she and this fellow were having an affair…"

"Which is why I'm not letting you in there by yourself," Harry cut in gruffly. Hearing the approaching footsteps, he looked reluctantly happy to see his best friend. The younger man came forward to meet him, tugging Ron's arm and leaning in to vehemently whisper at him. " _Do not_ let McLaggen say any of that in there! She's only just stopped crying. The last thing we need is him saying her fiancé's cheating on her."

"Right," Ron glanced over to McLaggen, who seemed positively uninterested in his boss' whispers and was busy reading a file. An identical file of which Harry was thrusting into his hand. "What's this about? Taylor said it was another kidnapping?"

"Roger Davies has vanished."

Realisation swept over Ron. He gestured at the interview room. "So that's…"

"Yeah, exactly."

"How long has she—"

"She's been in my office an hour," Harry groaned before catching himself. "Don't get me wrong, I feel awful for her. Not to mention she has every right to be upset. Not that she needs a justification to be upset, but it, ah, I mean…"

Ron cut in. "Brought up traumatising memories?"

"You're joking, but it actually did," he said, both still ignoring McLaggen. "So listen, I'm actually genuinely sorry for giving this to you, but it's related to Fawcett. You know that prototype Snackbox residue she was working on? There was some of that same residue at this crime scene. Matches George's sample he sent us."

Ron nodded, not having been against this in the first place. Though the information about the Snackbox residue made him frown. "I get it. It's fine anyway, we're friendly enough. Also, unlike you, I'm not terrified of crying women."

Harry sent him a disgruntled look at the last, then returned to vague worry. "You really don't mind?"

"I mind that you partnered me with that oaf," Ron retorted. But he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Look, it's fine. If it was Lavender in there it'd be a different story, but this isn't an issue." Harry's words then dawned on him. "They were engaged? Thought they were just dating. Though, to be fair, this was from months ago at the DA meet up."

"He proposed two weeks ago," Harry sent a glance at McLaggen. "I know you don't like the partner mess, but don't let him say anything stupid."

Ron sent him a pointed look.

"Anything too stupid," Harry corrected himself.

* * *

The interview room was painted a crisp blue, with a sandy carpet and turquoise ceiling. Ron (closing the case file he'd only just begun to flip through) recalled that it was meant to be soothing, but he'd always been put off by it. With the egg-shell white table and chairs, the decorators had obviously been trying to evoke a relaxing feeling of the sea. Which was well and good, except that if the Senior Auror stared too long at the walls he almost felt like he was being churned by waves. He wondered if it was enchanted, just so no one could get completely at ease.

Ron actually preferred the interview rooms meant for criminals. The crimson decor was volcanic and more than a bit fire-and-brimstones, but this 'tranquil' tripe set him on edge. He'd not mentioned this to Hermione yet, knowing she'd have a thing to say about his inherent dislike of anything resembling a hospital room or psych office.

Still, they were in the blue room. At one of the white chairs sat Cho Chang, holding a cup of tea. According to the small pool of liquid on her sleeves and table, her hands had been shaking for awhile. She stared into the glass as though trying to divine the future, a wave of dark black hair falling in front of her. McLaggen lost no time in jumping into a seat across from her, sending her a smarmy grin.

If Ron had seen her on the street, he might not have matched her to the usually immaculate beauty who strolled through the Ministry or christened business magazine covers. Her thick hair was tangled and her surely waterproof make-up had managed to be smudged. He spotted red circles looping around her eyes. Her already pinched look fell further as she took proper notice of them.

"Damn it," Cho said before catching herself. "Sorry, hello, nothing about you. I was just, just hoping to apologise. I scared him off?"

"Like a terrified little pygmy puff," Ron said, sitting down. "Or, really, like whoever's being chased by the puff."

Cho blinked, shaken even more from her stupor. "Pardon?"

Ron remembered he was talking to someone who hadn't grown up with Fred and George. "Let's just say you don't want to get one of those things riled up."

"Weasley," McLaggen sat back in his seat with a huff, "what're you on about?"

Ron hesitated, realising that out of context none of that would've made any sense. But to his surprise, someone spoke up before he could…just with an answer to a different question.

"I have an unfortunate habit of bawling on Harry," Cho set down the tea, massaging her shaking right hand with her left. "He's a good sport. Runs away as soon as possible, but he's nice about it. As for the pygmy puffs? Likely a mad Weasley thing I don't want to ask about. Am I close?"

"Dead on."

McLaggen only looked more confused, though was now winking suggestively at the oblivious woman. Ron quickly moved on before she could notice this.

"Listen," Ron continued to Cho, turning her attention fully away from McLaggen, "I'm not sure if anyone's told you, but an advance team's been to your flat and looked around a bit. I know you've gone over what happened, but do you mind going through it once more with us?"

"Not much to tell," she looked down at the tea, sliding her fingers along the edge. "Came home. Saw a mess and bl…blood, but couldn't find Rogie. I panicked and flooed here."

"Let's start from the beginning," Ron momentarily checked the file he'd barely had time to skim. "You got home this morning?"

"Yes."

"So your fiancé would've been home alone last night," a nod. "You know what he was doing yesterday?"

"He was at a match for the Falcons in Glasgow," Cho sniffled. "With something so close he'd have just apparated back to Edinburgh."

"Where you two live?" another nod and Ron continued, not thinking much of McLaggen's silence (or eyeing of their witness). "How long had it been since you'd seen Davies or been in your flat?"

"A day for both," she said. "We had breakfast at home yesterday, then I went to France for a business meeting. I came back this morning."

McLaggen made a small noise. As the other two turned to him, he snorted. "You're conveniently out of the country when your fiancé goes missing?"

"Merlin," Ron muttered, glaring at his partner. He almost wished the bloke was still inappropriately flirting.

A frostiness had entered Cho's gaze. "'Conveniently'?"

"Ignore him—"

"Yeah," McLaggen cut in. "Makes for a vague alibi, what with portkeys not being traced."

"I didn't take a portkey," Cho said, voice becoming harder. She directed the rest of her answer to Ron. "This was a wizard-muggle venture. I met my contacts in Heathrow and took a plane to Charles de Gaulle. This morning I flew back, then apparated from London to Edinburgh. Or can you not access Heathrow's biometrics and CCTV?"

"Yeah, that's fine," Ron sent a warning glance his partner's way. "We can always get a copy of your memory to verify—"

"So you only have muggle proof?" McLaggen scoffed, cutting in again. "That stuff's easily faked."

"Would you shut up?" Ron spoke over him, feeling his impatience surge. He turned to Cho apologetically. "Ignore him, he's an…" he realised calling him an idiot wouldn't make Cho any more confident of them being on the case, "he's a suspicious bloke. Thinks everyone's a suspect until proven otherwise. Which we _can_ prove once we check Heathrow records," he ran over McLaggen's protest before returning to the important matter. "When you got home this morning, what time was that? When did you notice something was wrong?"

"It was just before twelve when I, I saw the living room," her voice was back to being stilted, staring down at her now cold tea. "Things overturned, blasts taken from the wall, and the, the table." She sniffed. "We had a large glass table in the corner. It was shattered, blood everywhere…" she took a sudden glance up, horror etching her face, "was that Rogie's blood? Do you know if it—"

"Cho," Ron didn't want to tell her his report matched the blood to her fiancé. It was a tinge cowardly, but he didn't want to take away her hope without proof, "all of this was only in the living room? Did you see anything when you were walking in? Like an unlocked door or opened window."

She shook her head, gulping down a sob.

"Have you noticed any odd behaviour lately?" McLaggen jumped in, back to leering at Cho rather than staring at her suspiciously. "Threats? People following you about? More than usual, that is. With your looks, I imagine you get a lot of—"

"Unwanted attention?" Cho said stiffly, her implication clear. That was, to Ron. He figured it went over McLaggen's head. "No. There's been nothing strange lately."

Resisting the urge to stomp on his partner's foot, Ron spoke up. "Do you have any enemies? I don't mean only the threatening types. Unpleasant neighbours? Unruly coworkers?"

"Aside from my business rivals…and everyone who hates the Falmouth Falcons? More specifically, anyone annoyed that Rogie's lead them to three championships?" Her voice was dry. "No, no one specific."

Ron let that rest for the moment, controversial Quidditch mess or no. "Don't take this the wrong way or read into it, but how's the relationship between you two?"

"Perfect," Cho said simply, giving a piercing glare at McLaggen as she did so. But she then softened, turning back to Ron. "Honestly, perfect. Fairy tale-like and all that mess. Sure, we both have demanding schedules, but we love each other and so everything else just…fell into place," she cleared her throat, coughing back a slight choke. She returned to massaging her hands, fingers wrapping around her ring. "There were no problems."

Ron paused for a bit, letting her collect herself. He was thankful his partner had, for once, had the tact to remain quiet. "This will sound strange, but do you or Roger have any connection with my brother George's shop?"

Cho blinked up, confused. "No. Why?"

"Part of a prototype prank was found at the crime scene," he didn't go into details, as he would've been surprised if she _had_ known anything. "Do you have protections over your house?"

"A basic ward," Cho's voice filled with regret. "It only runs when someone's at home, meant to give us peace of mind at night. There were others we could have put up but we have most of our things in our vaults. We weren't worried about a robbery."

"Did you notice anything missing?"

"No. But I, I rushed out when I saw blood."

"You didn't place down your coat? Bags?"

"No, no."

Ron gave her a sympathetic look. "Just let us know if anything's missing once you get home, alright?"

She shivered at that.

"Unless you'd like a guard," said McLaggen swarmily, breaking his silence. Ron was almost grateful for this as it caused Cho to go from teary to scowling. "A strong man to protec—"

"SO!" Ron cut back in, not wanting that to go on too long. He already had a feeling this interrogation would end with McLaggen being hexed (and, surprisingly, not by him). "I think we're about done here."

"'A strong man to protect me'?" Cho repeated bitingly, staring at McLaggen and disregarding Ron's statement. "You must be joking."

"I wouldn't joke with a beauty like you," McLaggen grinned, leaning towards the woman as she leaned away, shuffling her chair back. "Sure, we'll find the bloke. But maybe you should rethink him and— _uck!_ "

" _I hate my job_ ," Ron gritted out, struggling to drag his noncooperative partner out of the room. He called back to a flabbergasted Cho. "Don't worry, he's not as incompetent as he seems. But if you have a problem—OI! Stop squirming, you big oaf!—if there's any problems, take it up with Harry. He's the one who assigned McLaggen to your case!"

Thrusting the man out the door, Ron slammed it behind him. When he turned back to the hallway, he met not only his irritated partner but his equally pissed off best friend. Said best mate who _would_ have been shouting at both of them, if he wasn't preoccupied with swearing as he banged his head against the wall.

Ron took in the scene. He released McLaggen and choked back a snicker. "That can't be good for you."

"Shut up!" Harry snarled, not glancing at him.

"Just saying," Ron said. He noted McLaggen had stopped glaring at him and was back to staring at Cho through the one-way glass, which Harry must have turned on when they'd entered the room. "Reckon I know why you get so many headaches."

"Would you shut it!"

* * *

 **A/N:** Though this fic requires background OCs, I want to avoid this as much as possible. To this end, I need to ask you lovely readers an odd question: which beloved/hated HP characters would you like to see vanish into thin air? The only ones you CAN'T request are anyone in the Potter/Weasley clan, the other biggies (Neville, Luna, Draco, Hagrid, etc), and anyone who's not human (pets, centaurs, ghosts, what have you). This is not me saying that all the major characters are safe. Pfft, on the contrary. It's only that as I already know where I'm taking this plot and the main characters I can't change that.

Still, I'm hearing suggestions for anyone else. You want to see Umbridge get her just desserts? Sweet. Think Fudge got off too easy? Maybe the kidnapper does too. You've always thought Parvati was shifty? Let's pluck her off the face of the earth. You think Madam Zabini deserves some comeuppance? Maybe she'll go the way of her ex-husbands. You hate everything that's wonderful and want to see the older Longbottoms nabbed from St. Mungo's? Why not!


	7. A Kneazle's Purr

**A/N:** Heads up: if you haven't listened to the 'Hamilton' Broadway musical yet, you're missing the greatest innovation that's happened to literature and music since JK Rowling and John Williams teamed up. I kid you not. Because guess what you get in mixing the story of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton with historical accuracy and a soundtrack bursting with rap, jazz, reggae, and hip-hop? The greatest soundtrack known to mankind.

I don't care if you dislike rap, aren't big on history, or aren't American and are like, 'meh, whatevs' about the American Revolutionary War. You'll love it all the same. Seriously, stop reading this fanfic and search for 'Hamilton soundtrack' on Youtube. What are you waiting for? Go, shoo!

You're welcome.

 **General Disclaimer:** I'm guessing J.K. Rowling doesn't write with a hip-hop/Broadway album on repeat in the background. So, nope, not her. Nor making a knut from this.

* * *

"Seems an awful waste. I mean, with the price of meat

What it is, when you get it, if you get it…good, you got it!

Take, for instance, Mrs. Mooney and her pie shop.

Bus'ness never better using only pussycats and toast!

And a Pussy's good for maybe six or seven at the most."

—Mrs. Lovett, _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

Cho didn't want to go anywhere near her flat. As she agreed to give them a copy of her memory of returning home, Ron didn't argue. In fact, it was better if she wasn't there to view the crime scene. An advance team of Aurors had already set up a ward and done a rapid survey of the flat (putting their findings in the file Ron still needed time to properly skim through), but a more in-depth look was needed.

So Ron wasted no time in apparating away to Scotland. Landing a few blocks from the flat in question, he gave a grin of triumph at managing to shake off another partner. It was only a quick grin, though, one which soon turned into a startled squawk.

"Posh place," said McLaggen (having landed near on top of Ron, causing the latter to lurch back in shock). He glanced around at the quaint apartments. "Never liked Edinburgh much. Any city without a Quidditch team can't be trusted, s'what I always say."

Ron straightened up, his surprise segwaying into irritation. "You apparated on top of me!"

"These were the coordinates," McLaggen scoffed. "You should've moved faster."

"I didn't think you'd apparate out of the Min…" Ron's protest trailed off, knowing he was being hypocritical. He also knew Harry must be laughing like mad. This didn't cheer him. "Whatever. Let's just get going."

"As I was saying, it's a travesty," McLaggen lost no time in piping up as they started down the pavement. Few cars were about on the residential street, but they passed the occasional jogger with a Westie nipping at their feet. "Look at Oxford: two professional teams! London bloody well has three, not that any of them are any good. Their own fault, there. Was keeper for the Camdens awhile back, but the coach kicked me off. Had her knickers in a twist about a joke, and blacklisted me for the rest of them! Unbelievable, I know. Must've been her time of the—"

Ron strolled down the Morningside neighbourhood, trying to ignore McLaggen's monologue. With every aggravating minute that passed it was clear the other man was as much of an arrogant prick as he'd remembered. Ron had never more wished he could apparate directly to a crime scene, but the wards the first responders had put up neatly put an end to that idea.

Not that this wasn't a nice walk, in theory. A small miracle had happened and Edinburgh was having decent weather. Even better, they were far enough from the city centre that few people were about. This upscale area was so quiet and still that McLaggen's self-approving laughter cut an awkward stab in the air. The only other noise came from distant traffic around the Waitrose a street back and, if that didn't sum up this suburban neighbourhood, Ron wasn't sure what could.

The cottage-like houses they passed were about as far from stacked London flats as one could get. The most blazing difference was that these places had yards—yards with neatly trimmed grass and pristine flower beds around the edges. Ron felt their only saving grace was the ivy twisted around the gates and framing the sun-soaked bricks of the houses, even with these plants having a bonsai tree-trimmed feeling about them. It also couldn't hide his creeping suspicion that each home was near identical to the next. It wasn't nearly as bad as the glimpses Ron had had of the utilitarian Privet Drive, but still. It was as though each homeowner had aimed for a postcard-like cliché of the British countryside: quaint house, put-together garden, and a sprinkle of ivy to wrap it all together.

Ron shook his head, grinning despite himself. He knew that if Hermione was here she'd be exclaiming over the beauty of the place while rushing to the nearest real estate office. Which he absolutely got. But, having grown up in the chaotic Burrow, his picture of the 'true' countryside was a bit different from his Cambridge-raised wife's.

Then again, they'd already passed half a dozen pubs on this short walk. Maybe this area wasn't so bad—vanishing wizard and neat yards aside. Whatever the case, looking around gave Ron an easy distraction from McLaggen, who was as ever determined to blabber away. He was wholly undeterred that his 'audience' hadn't been listening in the first place.

* * *

Roger's and Cho's home was obvious. Sure, there was a small crinkling of light around it from the ward. But it differed from their neighbours' in a few ways.

First off, someone had done multiplying and enlarging charms on the ivy. It wasn't so much 'draping' the house as it was commandeering the thing. Secondly, there was a more powerful ward around a harness under the overhang. Said harness was holding near a dozen brooms.

McLaggen whistled, having spotted the same thing. "Holy…"

"Guess there wasn't a robbery," Ron eyed the brooms in similar amazement, taking note as they passed by that it didn't look like anyone had tried to tamper with the magical wards. "Is that every Firebolt model?"

"Forget about that!" McLaggen was craning back, reluctant to loose sight of the brooms as they entered the house. "They have a blasted Lightning Bolt!"

"So what?" Ron gave into the temptation and looked back at the spectacular collection. "A Millennium Firebolt. A Millennium model! Gold leaf too, looks like. Sweet Merlin."

McLaggen scoffed. "Right, forgot your family must've bought out the Lightning Bolts. Don't forget the rest of us have barely laid eyes on one."

"They're rubbish," Ron waved off, "horrid breaks. Only decent for seekers, being so fast and whatnot. But come on, a Millennium! Nothing else holds a candle to it."

He gave him an odd look. "Are you out of your bloody mind? There's rumours a Bolt can break the sound barrier!"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah well, if you can get your hands on a 2000 model, I'd give you two Lightning Bolts for it. Don't look so shocked, my family has more than enough of those brooms. Besides, the look on my sister's face if I can get a Millennium when she can't would be worth it."

Though McLaggen's expression was also priceless, the Senior Auror reluctantly turned away from the stunning collection to enter the house. After a pointed look, his partner scowled and stormily followed. Ron couldn't exactly blame him. Though, as they went through the entryway, he could've done without the door being slammed shut behind them.

McLaggen noisily stomped down the foyer.

Ron smugly wondered whether the other man even knew what a foyer was.

A moment later he realised he wasn't entirely sure what it was either. He then felt a bit foolish in considering whether or not this room was or wasn't what he thought it might be. He mused that, at the very least, no stealthy Auror would stomp around the whatever-it-was room like that. This made him a touch cheerier as he walked more sedately into the hallway lined with paintings. But the cheer distinguished as soon as he entered the living room.

It was a bloody mess. Literally.

Not horrifically splattered blood like in that muggle movie Hermione had unwisely suggested they watch the previous Halloween. But he was startled that likely only a few people had partaken in this struggle, and that this room hadn't instead had a herd of hippogriffs barrelling through it.

The worst part was the shattered glass table to the right side by another door, the shards on the carpeted floor dripping with blood. Yet the rest of the room was in almost as bad a shape, even with how sparse it was. The curtained windows lining the entire left-hand wall had been blasted with spell fire, piercing the glass and fragmenting the large beige fabric with holes of splintering black ash. The once luxurious couch and loveseat in front of the windows now had more blackened stuffing in them than out. The opposite wall wasn't much better, seeing as the brick had harsh dents carved out of it. Ron could only guess what cacophony of curses had resulted in that.

In comparison to this, the far side of the room was almost comically untouched. An armchair sat in the centre (a leather work bag leaning against it), a cabinet with bottles of whiskey and wine on one side, and a small table on the other. A single glass half-filled with amber liquid sat there, undisturbed by the disaster that had fallen the rest of the place.

Ron let out a low whistle, walking around and taking in the other details. As McLaggen was by the couch, he moved to the other side. Opening the other door he saw it led to the kitchen. This area, as well as the hallway, looked untouched.

The carpet draped over much of the wooden floor was relatively intact, except the blood and glass surrounding the table as well as a bunching of fabric right in front of the armchair. Ron glanced through the file: the cabinet had been unlocked when the advance team had gotten here. He scoured the containers themselves. There could easily be something missing, but from his untrained eye a number of the remaining ones looked expensive. A bottle in front and centre was unsealed and partly empty.

Ron turned back to the door leading out to the hallway. Through it, he could see a number of pricey paintings lining the wall. Even the leather bag cost more than a few galleons and—poking in it and pushing aside a variety of papers—Davies' wallet and money pouch remained. On the side table he could vaguely spot a blueish residue of a Skiving Snackbox around the glass, like the advance team had said.

"Not a robbery," Ron mumbled to himself, confirming what he'd basically assumed since he'd seen the untouched, insanely expensive broomsticks. Standing up he went back to the door and turned around, facing the room. He strode forward as his voice rose to a normal level, catching McLaggen's attention. "Davies comes back, tired from the day. He sets his bag by the armchair then goes to the cabinet." He waved vaguely at the last as his partner began to pay attention, moving away from examining a painting of flapping birds on a tree. "Grabs some whiskey. Might've conjured a cup or grabbed one from the kitchen. He pours out a drink, leaves the rest, and goes back to his chair."

Ron walked over and slouched into the armchair, glancing around him as he did so. "So he's relaxing, whiskey beside him on the side table…which was where the residue was found. In the whiskey too, but why'd it be on the table?"

"Davies spilled it," said McLaggen, coming over from across the room. "The bottle had been dosed so, after he'd drunk it, he became sloppy. Simple."

Ron checked the file, frowning. "Whiskey wasn't found on the table, just the faint blue residue. Plus, how'd anyone know to poison the whiskey? There are plenty of other drinks in the cabinet. How'd someone even know Davies would be drinking?"

"Oh. Oh!" McLaggen snapped his fingers, stepping up until he was directly in front of Ron and the armchair. "How the potion got into the cup and the table?" He moved his hand above the glass, pouring an imaginary vial. He smirked. "Someone poured it in."

"They were here before Davies came home," said Ron slowly. Though he'd never admit it, he was grudgingly impressed by the theory. "The invisible man, like with Fawcett."

"Stupid of him," McLaggen chortled. He drew his wand and lazily raised it. "Why bother with dosing him when a _stup_ —"

"Stop!" Ron barked, batting the wand away from where it'd been pointing at his head. Any minimal respect he'd been feeling towards McLaggen vanished. "What're you doing?"

"Dramatising the crime," shrugged McLaggen, pocketing his wand. "You started it. So, why the Snackboxes?"

"Give me a sec," Ron grumbled, annoyed at having a wand pointed at him. "There's another problem. These Snackboxes, the experimental ones that produce residue? They're meant to be rubbed on your skin, not swallowed. Why'd they put it in his drink? Unless," he stared at the glass, thoughts churning, "unless they didn't know exactly what they had. Because unless someone told them, they'd assume it should be drunk. Like powder to drop in a liquid."

"So Fawcett didn't tell them," clarified McLaggen, frowning. Maybe due to his continued thought of her guilt.

"Looks like it," Ron considered. "What if that was why they dosed Davies? A test, to see how effective the product was."

"Not very effective, looks like," he bluntly gestured around the torn up room.

"Right. Right," Ron tapped his hand against the armrest. "You're the kidnapper. You've sprinkled the powder into the glass, getting it onto the table as well. For Davies not to notice anything," he leaned down, away from McLaggen and the short table and towards the leather bag, "he wasn't looking at it. Maybe he got up, or maybe he was reaching down to unclasp his bag."

McLaggen came around, kneeling and rummaging through the papers inside, holding them up at random. "Quidditch strategies, looks like."

"Not surprising," said Ron, still bent over. He mimed getting the papers from the bag before straightening up. "He gets his work, sits back, and drinks. Meanwhile the criminal," he sent McLaggen a look. The other man got the cue and, grumbling, stood and returned to standing by the side table, "the criminal's leaning right over him."

"What about the Snackbox?" McLaggen said. "Meant for pranks, ain't it? So you'd think Davies would be suspicious if he suddenly got a nosebleed or threw up."

"Could be something subtler," Ron considered, adding this to a growing list of things to ask George about. "Let's say it's a narcotic, for example. Meant to knock him unconscious. Or it gives him a headache, bad enough to put him off balance. But we already know he drank the stuff. I'll have to ask my brother, but I imagine it'd get diluted in the liquid. Not as potent, see?"

"So it didn't effect him as much as they expected?" McLaggen let out a low whistle. "Could explain the struggle."

"Yeah, okay," Ron warmed up to this theory. "Davies drinks the stuff. Begins feeling out of it, say, tired or loopy. Realises something's wrong and that he's been hexed or dosed—"

"That's a stretch," he cut in. "He'd be that observant?"

"He's smart," Ron said absently, mind on what might've happened. He didn't notice that he was actually working with McLaggen. "Has to be to lead the Falcons to three championships, cheating or no. So he knows something's up. What's his first instinct? Shout for help?"

"Nope." McLaggen pointed his wand back at Ron's head. After a glare, he rolled his eyes and shifted it to the side. "He'd have been cursed without a struggle. Same thing if he'd gone for his wand."

"Not if he was careful about it," argued Ron. "Let's say Davies thinks there's a chance there's an intruder. He doesn't know where the bloke is. Don't know about you, but if it were me I'd try to hide getting to my wand." He hunched over just enough to covertly grab his wand from his pocket. "Maybe it was on him, maybe in his bag. Either way he'd probably lean forward to block the movement."

"Davies still wouldn't know where the intruder was. Pretty useless for a fight."

"Yeah," said Ron. "But it might be enough to break for an exit. The kitchen door's close enough, and with a surprise start and a lot of luck?" He jerked up to a stand, careful not to step on the waves in the rug. "Davies made a run for it, scrunching up the carpet as he bolted."

"But invisible bloke's watching all of it," McLaggen strode on, wand pointed forward. He gestured at the broken glass table. "Bludgeons Davies into the table. End of story."

"Nah," Ron shook his head, a step further. "Look behind you: there's burn marks up and down the curtains. Davies got in some shots, though most of them missed. He didn't go down immediately," he twisted back around. Avoiding the grisly sight of the blood-stained table, he eyed the bashes to the nearby wall. "Invisible man missed too, allowing Davies to return fire."

"Then the poor bugger dropped through the glass." McLaggen knelt by the destroyed table, tilting his head sideways. "Y'know, there's not much blood up close."

Ron humourlessly snorted.

"Not much at all," McLaggen either didn't hear Ron's derision or disregarded it. "No pool of it, at least, so Davies didn't bleed out here. No trail of blood either."

Looking closer, Ron saw that his partner had a point. Woe as he was to admit it, he was starting to see how the infuriating bloke might have become an auror (maybe—he was still betting on family connections). But that didn't stop him from pointing out the clear flaw. "There is a trail. See there? Only a foot or so, but Davies was dragged."

On top of that, there was a much larger smudge of blood on the floor where the trail ended. It almost seemed like the bleeding body had been shaken. Or…

"Bloody hell." Ron let out a small curse, straightening and jerking away from the blood. "It's all smeared. Remember how Fawcett might've been convulsing?"

Though McLaggen stayed put, Ron had had his share of staring at blood. He usually didn't mind it all that much. But the longer he looked at this crime scene, the more he imagined Roger Davies' splayed out body. What really got him was that he knew the man. Not much, but they'd spoken before. Had seen each other occasionally back at Hogwarts, at DA reunions, or at Quidditch events. He'd talked about him at times, too. Not much (mainly rants about the Falcons' success, like every Quidditch fan who supported another team), but still. It was unsettling. Reminiscent of a time when death haunted everyone he knew. It almost reminded him of seeing the arrows on his parents' old clock turned to 'mortal peril'.

Shaking his head of these thoughts and telling himself he was being ridiculous, he moved to the other side of the room. Davies' curses had burned charred holes into the wide curtains and branded patches of wall. As the Senior Auror got closer, he caught a whiff of something. A faint but nasty whiff. Looking around, he couldn't find a source for it. Rechecking the files' notes also revealed no answers.

Ron brushed open the curtain, peering around into the small space between it and the wall. The source of the smell then became obvious.

He nudged the curtain farther aside, noting as he did so that one of the charred patches lined up with the small body behind the curtain. The curled up kneazle could almost appear to be asleep, if not for the fact that a spell had gorged out much of its stomach and catheterised the blood.

Ron's hand flew to his nose. This was mainly to block the smell, but he also felt a churning in his stomach. He didn't need to check if the animal was dead.

"McLaggen?" he voiced up, wrenching his eyes from the sight. He tried not to gag at the stench. "First response: see if they said anything about a dead kneazle. Looks like one of Davies' spells hit his pet. It's, well, it's not pretty."

Though Ron had had more than his share of dissected animals in the past few weeks, this sight was enough to hit him in the gut. Because while this was a brown spotted kneazle rather than an orange half-kneazle, he couldn't help but see Crookshanks' squashed face on top of the mangled body. Though Davies was obviously far more important, he'd grown fond of fur balls over the years.

Ron stood back up, peering around him again. "Damn. Not looking forward to telling Cho her pet's dead, on top of everything else."

"I'll take care of that."

"What?"

"I'll talk to Chang," McLaggen sent him a grin. "You don't want to, right?"

"Sure. But I don't want you hitting on her," Ron retorted.

"Relax, I'll be charming."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ron muttered. But, knowing they had to get through the rest of the scene, he let it rest for the moment.

* * *

Before Ron knew it, he was forced to apparate from Edinburgh with few more leads. They might have reconstructed what had potentially happened, but the clues for the actual kidnapping were near nonexistent. Their best lead was the strange connection between Fawcett and Davies, which said how much they were grappling at strings.

The 'blood trail' led nowhere. There was little signs of magic around the home. There was no sign as to how the kidnapper had gotten in, where Ron could just as easily have betted on a muggle lockpick as following an oblivious Davis through the open front door. The only thing that was anywhere near something to note was that the amount of blood found on the scene was nowhere near enough to kill a man. Even this was little comfort.

The main problem was that there was no clear connection between the two victims. While Fawcett had been a victim of opportunity, Davies had been targeted in his home. While Fawcett had no enemies, almost everyone related to Quidditch had a grudge against Davies. Fawcett was at best middle class and had her purse taken. Davies was rich and his money hadn't been touched. Even if Fawcett's capture had been random and her Skiving Snackboxes used in the next crime by chance, why change everything about the target?

Not helping matters, as soon as they were out of the crime scene and back in London McLaggen had reverted back to his old, unbearable self. They'd barely been looking into leads for an hour before McLaggen began getting restless. Impatient. The reason for this soon became apparent.

Though Ron had forgotten McLaggen wanted to tell Cho about her deceased pet, his partner hadn't. That is, McLaggen hadn't forgotten wanting to talk to Cho.

When McLaggen cornered her at the Ministry and started telling her about his 'Gryffindor Sword', not a mention of kneazles was made. Ron made an attempt to stop him, but he wasn't that upset when Cho beat him to the punch. 'Punch' being quite literal. As McLaggen gaped from the ground at the scowling witch, Ron might or might not have mentioned a certain transfiguration spell.

The not-actual-lamppost was, once again, put out to the street corner.

Ron, feeling that this good bit of work deserved a break, figured he might as well make a quick floo call to solve an irritating issue of his. It had been his last resort, but McLaggen had almost gotten Cho to hex both of them. As any fool could see, this was a horrid work environment.

Going to his office's floo, Ron tossed in some powder and said out the household name. Sticking his head in the fireplace, he glanced around the empty living room. He shouted out a name and waited for an answer…only to be met with silence. Another shout resulted in equal failure.

Drawing out his head and taking out his wand, Ron conjured a Patronus. As the silver terrier yipped happily around him, he told the little critter to keep yapping at the person in question until she got the bloody message and flooed him. He then cheerily sent it on its way.

Not twenty minutes latter (which Ron spent combing through even more people who might be out to get Davies), a grumpy face appeared in his fireplace. Flaming red hair was tossed back over the logs as annoyed brown eyes flickered above a puckered mouth.

"Do you care," Ginny stated in a monotone, staring up from the hearth at her brother as tendrils of fire lapped her frame, "that I was breast-feeding my baby when you pestered me?"

"Too much information," said Ron. "If you'd just—"

"Or that your Patronus' barking woke up Jamie?" she continued, voice dry. "Or that I'm supposed to be working from home, which I can't do with all you prats heckling me?"

"Wait. 'All' us prats?"

"Charlie's convinced Jamie's stolen his precious dragon eggs," Ginny started off on a rant, missing Ron's raised eyebrows, "Angie thinks I'm being horribly unfair to Puddlemere's rubbish excuse of a Keeper, mum won't shut up about Al's teething, and George keeps sneaking in rebellious pygmy puffs because, 'They make great pets for kids, barely even bite'! On top of that, my husband's driving me up the wall complaining about you. He was laughing nefariously at dinner yesterday, I kid you not. Nefariously! Harry! It was so ridiculous I stunned him and checked him for polyjuice." She took in a deep breath, now glaring at him. "So, Ron. What the hell do you want?"

Ron paused, going over her lengthy statement. He considered commenting on how she'd paranoidly stunned her own husband, before realising he actually wasn't that shocked about it. He wasn't sure what that said about Ginny, Harry, or himself. So he went with another option. "You know, with little kids you really shouldn't be swearing."

"F—k you."

"Charmer, you are," said Ron, leaning back on the ground to get more comfortable. He brushed aside the rest of her rant as well as her steely glare. "Whatever. Listen Ginny, you owe me and I'm calling in a favour. Convince Harry I don't need a partner. At the very least, I certainly don't need to be babysitting Cormac McLaggen."

Ginny was surprised enough that her anger fell to the wayside. Tiny embers cascaded off her eyelids. "You've, you've got to be joking. How do you reckon I owe you?"

"Not joking," Ron said to his sister's head in the fireplace. "Harry will listen to you! Tell him to lay off. It's not my fault he has to figure out somewhere to put McLaggen."

Her confusion transformed back into an annoyed frown. "Sounds to me like it's a training programme. But again, _I_ owe _you_?"

"McLaggen!" Ron complained. "Your prat of a husband ordered Cormac Freaking McLaggen to tail me, all because I can't find a partner."

"According to Harry, you've been given plenty of partners," Ginny said, unimpressed. "None met your expectations?"

"Not since your idiot husband took the promotion."

"He offered you Deputy Head!"

"Which I turned down," Ron scoffed, hating the idea of that. "Like I want to deal with more paperwork and bureaucracy. But—as I've said _numerously_ —we've got to get Harry checked into St. Mungo's."

"He's not a head case, unlike you. Or if he is it's your fault," Ginny said with a world-weary sigh, apparently putting aside how she'd stunned Harry due to him acting out of character. "So what if he accepted the position? We both made compromises."

"Yeah yeah, both of you hated each other's dangerous jobs. Blah blah blah," Ron waved this aside. "Tell me again how you going into reporting _Quidditch_ and getting free tickets to _Quidditch games_ equates to Harry getting off the field for a crummy desk job?"

"It's not a desk job!" she exclaimed. "He's Head Auror. Besides, those free tickets? I go to almost all the games with my husband and kids."

"Harry got the worse deal," he retorted.

"Ron!"

"Hey, don't blame the messenger," he said, raising his hands placatingly. "As his best mate, I've gotta say: I'm taking his side. Sorry sis."

" _There are no sides! It was his bloody idea!_ "

"Sure it was," Ron scoffed. "Anyway, whatever. If Harry really wants to be mental, more luck to him. But McLaggen? You've got to help me here."

"You were just picking a fight with me!"

"Because this is all basically your fault. But see, here? You can make it up to me by convincing Harry I don't need a partner. Especially not that oaf."

Ginny gazed at him, wholly unamused. "Luckily for you, I'm going to go now because my OB-GYN said undue stress isn't good for the baby. 'Undue stress', meaning murdering my brother to get some peace and quiet."

"You're barely pregnant," Ron dismissed the threat, wanting to continue the conversation.

"I'm three months in!" Ginny protested, bristling. "But whatever, I don't care. Just shut it, play nice with McLaggen, and stop bothering me. I'm supposed to be relaxing, not yelling at you—though Merlin knows I want to! Harry likes his damn job and taking the promotion was his idea. _Stop messing with your partners just because they aren't Harry!_ "

Ginny's raging head disappeared from the fireplace with a _Snap!_

Ron sat back on his heels, considering who else to floo. Hermione was just amused by this. Kingsley would do that eyebrow lift thing. George would laugh hysterically. His parents wouldn't see what the problem was and…frankly? There weren't too many other people who could hope to change Harry's mind. He was a pretty determined bloke. Even Ginny had her hands full trying to convince him of some things, such as which Quidditch team to support.

He halted at the last thought, groaning as a burst of realisation hit him. "Quidditch!" he muttered, annoyed at himself. He grabbed another batch of floo powder. "Ginny knows everything about the bloody League and…frick."

The floo was quickly restarted and Ron stuck his head in the fireplace. After hollering for his baby sister for a few minutes she finally appeared, arms folded around her chest and undeniably grumpy.

"I'm not here about Harry!" Ron said with a rush, hoping to get her to stay. "Not that I'm letting that go but, yeah, Quidditch. You on top of it?"

Ginny sent him a disbelieving look.

"Right, it's your job," Ron backtracked. "The Falmouth Falcons. Got any gossip on them?"

The frown turned into a scowl, "Just about them being cheating, dirty bast—"

"Yeah, I got that," said Ron. "Haven't been under a stone, everyone's heard the rumours. I meant behind the scenes. Anyone particularly hate Roger Davies?"

"Anyone?" Ginny scoffed, walking closer to the fireplace. "Try anyone not involved with the Falcons. The prat doesn't care how he wins and will do anything shy of illegality to get it."

"Well, 'the prat's' been kidnapped. Any recent gossip?"

She halted, startled, "Kidnapped. Roger Davies? Roger Daredevil Davies?"

"Taken from his home in a struggle," he recalled that he ought to have a disclaimer in there. "Which hasn't been released to the press yet, so keep quiet for a bit. You know the drill. Anyway, recent problems?"

Ginny blinked, getting used to the news. She took the off-limit story in stride, "I…no. It's the off-season. There's mainly just pick-up matches and charity games, nothing big. This came to the Aurors?"

"Yep. Your husband's probably still traumatised from Cho crying on him, beware of that," Ron, though sorry for Cho, couldn't find it in him to extend the sympathy to either Potter. "But never mind that. You're telling me there's no new Quidditch scandals?"

"Behind the scenes? Maybe," said Ginny doubtfully. "The team managers, including Davies, will have been getting their line-ups for next season. That involves money, rivalries, bribes, and rather a lot of blackmail. I'm sure the Falcons are having their share of it, but I haven't heard anything specific."

"What about the Falcons' last season? Everyone grumbles about them winning, but did they actually cheat?"

"You mean, can I prove it? Nope," Ginny said this with a scowl, as though it was a personal blow. "Believe me, I've tried. Gone through all their books, watched practice tapes, interviewed the lot of them. Whatever that team's doing, they're damn good at covering it up."

"What do you think they're doing?"

Ginny rubbed her face in annoyance. "Do you really not know this?"

"I pay attention to league ranks," Ron explained, putting aside that if this had anything to do with the Chudley Cannons he'd be the go-to expert. "You're the Quidditch reporter who's gone all investigative-y. So tell me."

She still seemed reluctant. But, after a groan, she gave in. "For the record, I'm still peeved at you and am only helping because it's a case. Alright, Quidditch 101? Teams don't become brilliant overnight. Too good to be true. You know that tripe about how one player can make all the difference? It's just that, tripe," she raised an impatient hand before he could protest. "Yes, I know everyone used to say that about me. That was the point. The Harpies said, 'Hey, we have a brilliant new player who's winning all the games. Get obsessed with her and us!' If the teams hype about individual players they get more money from the fans. In reality, a single player can change the points by a bit, sure, or raise enthusiasm. But they aren't going to take a humdrum team to the championship. That sort of story only happens when the team's completely switched up. I'm talking about new players, new management, new everything. There needs to be a drastic, fundamental overhaul."

"So?"

"So," Ginny huffed, "four years ago the Falcons were in the bottom half of the League. Had been there for ages. Then Jeffrey Nott retired and Roger Davies became Head Coach. Next season, the Falcons steamrolled their competition and took their place at the top. The only thing that changed was Davies."

"Might just be a good coach."

"No one's that good," Ginny rebuffed. "Mediocre players all around, so-so equipment, and they _win_? Don't make me laugh. No one else's buying it either. After their first championship people thought it was a fluke, a Cinderella story. With the second championship the conspiracy theorists came out, with it only getting worse each year. Problem is, no one can figure out how they're cheating. The League's official investigation turned up nothing."

"Basically, Ron? If Davies' disappearance has anything to do with Quidditch, you're looking at one of three things. A pissed off and obsessed fan of a different team, an even more peeved opposing player, or a back stab from whichever shady character has been helping Davies win the championships."

* * *

Ginny's insights, while informative, didn't really help the case. It gave Ron plenty of new suspects, but it always came down to the same question. If this was about Quidditch, why was Fawcett the first victim? Yes, she played chaser at Hogwarts, but she had never been connected to the professional leagues.

For the rest of the afternoon, Ron put aside everything related to Quidditch to focus on what was left of the cases. There was plenty for either one separately, but the only thing even vaguely connecting them was that they were both former Ravenclaws. Which was when he realised just how much he was grasping at straws.

Putting that aside, Ron looked at just Davies (minus everything Quidditch). This also resulted in little. No robbery, no body. No attempt to clean the crime scene, so the kidnapper wanted to display it. No attempt to target Chang, so Davies was the target. It was also a decent bet that they knew she'd be out of town, so the house had been watched. It was a targeted home invasion, which meant it was about as personal a crime as one could get. Which all meant that he had to consider that Chang was behind it.

And yet—Ron rubbed his head, staring at the parchments littering his desk as the day drew on—why would the kidnapper use an experimental potion that they weren't sure about? It'd turned an otherwise professional crime into chaos. Which was clearly unintentional, but why take the risk?

"Because if it worked, it'd be helpful," Ron answered his own question with a sigh. "For Fawcett, they were all about being untraceable. This would be an untraceable, unidentifiable potion. Course they'd want to use it."

Which brought it back to why the kidnapper hadn't cleaned up the Davies crime scene. They'd been overly meticulous with Fawcett. Why the change in MO? The crimes must be related, as the only ones with access to the prototype Snackboxes were George and Fawcett.

Ron gave a low curse, realising he'd need to get George's alibi. Same with all the employees at WWW. The next step would also have to be reviewing their security systems to see who would have access to the Snackboxes. Best to check off every possibility.

He yawned, breaking himself out of his thoughts. Glancing around, he was stunned to see a darker light coming in from the window. There was still the chattering of Aurors around him, but he could see out of his open door more than a few of his coworkers trooping out for the night.

Realising that this was a brilliant idea, Ron brushed the case papers together and slammed the files closed. He needed a break. Going home for a peaceful evening sounded like a fantastic way to clear his mind.

* * *

Of course, in thinking this, Ron had forgotten that his evenings were never peaceful. Not that this was a bad thing. What usually 'broke up' the tranquility was his daughter making her stuffed unicorn sentient, having dinner parties with his friends, talking Hermione down from buying yet another library, all-out-shouting-matches with his siblings (in-laws or otherwise), or babysitting a gaggle of squealing nieces and nephews as they got everything they really shouldn't.

Tonight though, no one was over. Dinner was leftovers and wouldn't for a bit, his wife was upstairs taking a nap, and Rose was relatively well-behaved. The only issue was the pet who was—Ron swore to Merlin—glaring daggers at him.

Simply, feeding a cat pepper-up potion wasn't an easy task. Especially when the half-kneazle in question was a dour orange tabby who was picky about all food, let alone medicine.

Not that Ron hadn't grown fond of Crookshanks over the years. There was a reason he was trying to heal the stubborn animal, after all. But the moody cat, while affectionate in its own way, was a stubborn pain whenever it set its mind to something. Ron would normally sympathesis, he would. But he'd been trying to give him his medicine for ten minutes now, and was quickly becoming done.

Rose wasn't helping. Ron wasn't sure why she connected 'daddy's-tackled-Crookshanks-with-a-potion', with, 'time-to-play-with-kitty'. But there they were. So now his daughter was latched onto Crookshanks as well, squiggling and giggling at the manic ride she was getting.

Ron would have just put Rose back in her pram, but she looked adorable clinging onto the unimpressed half-kneazle. That, and she was sure to start screaming if he unlatched her. So, all in all, it was best to continue struggling with the mad situation.

Crookshanks gave another sneezy purr. The wizard jumped on the distraction to recapture the cat from escaping. Lunging forward on the rug, he wrapped his arms around both the irritated cat and laughing baby, potion vial clasped between his teeth. But even with this effort, the tabby would've gotten away if it hadn't been hit by more peppery sneezes. The auror thanked his lucky stars and used the pause to unclasp the vial.

Ron would be worried about Rose catching the pet's cold, but the little girl had so many vaccination and preemptive healing charms on her that chances were far better that a Crumple-Horned Snorkack would waltz into the room and start tap dancing.

Hermione, on the other hand, couldn't have many of the vaccinations due to her pregnancy. Hence her mad paranoia over germs, as well as her reluctant distancing from Crookshanks and his lingering cold.

Still, none of that changed Ron's current predicament. Whenever he got the potion anywhere near Crookshanks' mouth, either he'd shake his head away, or Rosie's foot, hand, or dress would collide with the bottle instead. He couldn't believe this was more difficult than giving his daughter her vitamins. At least with her, if he demonstrated how 'yummy' the things were himself, she'd gulp them right down. She might give him betrayed looks as soon as the taste hit her, but he could live with that.

How could a cat be more difficult than a child? As Ron had to summon another bottle (the first pepper-up having been spilled over rug and fur), he found himself fondly recalling the long-ago days when he couldn't stand Hermione's pet. Back then, if the half-kneazle refused all medicine, then fine, it could sneeze. But now, the mad animal was his pet too, and he cared about the mangy furball.

"Stop squirming!" Ron struggled to hold the madly wiggling Crookshanks in place while not accidentally hurting him or causing his daughter to fall off her haphazard perch. "As bad as giving you a bath. Come on, I'm trying to help here! One little sip of potion, s'all I'm asking. It's not that foul tasting and—Crookshanks! Stop clawing at me, you mad beast!"

Rose giggled at her dad's plight, perfectly content in sitting on the cat. Ron was vaguely disbelieving that Crookshanks was fine with being mistaken as a horse, but protested some harmless medicine. Then again, the animal pretty much considered the little girl her kitten. The wizard usually thought this was cute, except when circumstances like this flew it back in his face.

"Yeah yeah, daddy's hilarious," Ron gave his daughter a strained smile. She giggled more, and was answered by a burst of laughter from behind them. Craning his neck around, he spotted Hermione with her hands pressed against her mouth, eyes watering from the ridiculous scene. "Hello to you too. Give me a hand here?"

"What, what in heaven's name are you doing?" Hermione forced out from her giggles, walking into the room with a broad grin.

"What does it look like?"

"I have absolutely no idea," she managed to get ahold of herself, though her amusement hadn't lessened. Ron sighed, taking a break from wrestling with the uncooperative cat to properly turn to his wife.

"You're worried about catching Crookshanks' cold. I mean," he held back her answer as she opened her mouth, "I know you've been sneezing, but it's mini-sneezes really, not the full-blown thing. So, though I think you're out of your mind, I'm trying to fix the problem."

Hermione still looked confused.

Ron held up the potion, jiggling it, "Pepper-up."

Hermione fell into another spree of helpless giggles. Rose happily copied her mum, still clinging onto Crookshanks (who, on his part, was still eyeing Ron suspiciously). "Oh Ron! Sorry, sorry love," she hiccoughed, trying to control the bubbles of laughter, "that's very sweet of you. It is. But that won't do anything."

"Course it will," Ron argued. "If he stops protesting long enough to drink it, that is."

"It's pepper-up, Ron." An amused grin lined Hermione's lips, softening as she sat down next to her husband. "Incredibly thoughtful of you, but that doesn't work on kneazles."

"What? Course it works," he waved this away. "I've fed it to Pig and Art countless times. It always cures their sniffles."

"Owls aren't magical creatures," Hermione patiently explained. "I used to think it might have some effect on Crookshanks, seeing as he's half cat. But no. It simply doesn't work—the magic in him is too different from ours. Potions meant for humans only work on us and mundane animals; that is, anyone where a differing magic won't interfere."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I did look up a few things before I got Crookshanks," she said in amusement rather than annoyance. "Though, this does make me wonder if we're splitting the pets' chores evenly. You've never given Crookshanks medicine?"

"Course I have! Pepper-up, like I said."

Hermione's smile slightly dimmed. She turned to the half-kneazle with a hint of worry. Rose, having grown bored of the adults' conversation, had scooted off the half-kneazle and was lazily petting his head. "You've always given Crookshanks pepper-up potion?"

"Of course."

"Oh, you poor sweetheart!" Hermione turned her attention to Crookshanks, rubbing his belly. "No wonder you're still sick, with your daddy giving you the wrong medicine."

Ron frowned down at the potion bottle, brow furrowing, "You aren't joking? Wait, hold up. Tell me this hasn't been hurting him?"

"It's just ineffective," Hermione was still cooing at Crookshanks, who'd rolled over onto his side and was purring into his owner's petting fingers. "Oh, this is my fault. I'd always assumed you'd had a magical pet at some point!"

"Aside from the baby dragons Charlie snuck home?" Ron rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a twinge foolish. He'd set down the bottle, but not before giving the traitorous potion a dark look.

"I'm sorry love, I never thought of this," she turned from the animal to give Ron a small smile. "Don't worry, no harm done. It was sweet of you to try and make him feel better."

"You know me," Ron said, managing a weak grin. "Sweet but ineffective."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione scoffed, properly turning away from the purring Crookshanks to look at her husband. "That's the only stupid thing you've said all night. It was a simple mistake. Honestly, it's rather adorable you tried to cure him. I just regret not getting a picture of you struggling with Crookshanks' squirming!"

"While Rose rode side-saddle," Ron's grin crept back in, finding the funny side of this situation. Rose, seeing that her mum had stopped petting Crookshanks, had gleefully crawled back up onto his back. "So, the real question. Do we have the proper potion?"

"I'll pick some up at the Magical Menagerie tomorrow," she waved this away, now very close to him. Their daughter was cheerfully chirping as Crookshanks padded her around the room. "I've been meaning to do it for ages. But I've been silly, it's just a case of the sniffles. There's more important things." Their noses touched, upturned lips a breath apart. "You're the most wonderful, thoughtful man. Have I told you that lately?"

"Think I need a reminder," Ron murmured, leaning forward enough to meet her lips. His arms folded around hers. "So, the emotional range of a teaspoon?"

"Shush you," Hermione tutted against his mouth, not stopping the kiss.

Both parents were vaguely aware their daughter was still riding Crookshanks around the living room. But as the little girl's delighted squeals rang in the air, the cuddling adults felt no need to move anytime soon.

* * *

 **A/N:** Ron not knowing it was the wrong potion for years? Yeah yeah, I know it's silly what with him being a pureblood. But I figured plenty of people accidentally don't realise something kinda obvious. For example? I've been writing and posting fanfics for ages, and only recently got two incredibly helpful comments (THANK YOU conjure-at-your-own-risk and Psych0Geek!) letting me know I've been screwing up my dialogue with end stops. So, in the same way that I missed a crucial grammar lesson somewhere along the way, Ron hadn't realised the pepper-up wasn't helping Crookshanks.

Other news since the last update? Ah, 'Hamilton'. Water on Mars. New Cormoran Strike book. Oh and, you know, it's cool there's going to be an 8th HP story. No big. I mean, it's not like I'm over here freaking out about Cursed Child or anything. Not like I'm going to bend heaven and earth to get a ticket to the show. Not like I'm totally chill with justifying an expensive trip to the UK just for a play. A play about Harry Potter. A play which is a sequel. A play which almost positively touches on prequel stuff. A play which looks like it's all about daddy!Harry.

…BECAUSE DAD!HARRY! SWEET MERLIN, HOW ADORABLE IS THAT? We got a sneak preview of it in the Epilogue, but this could be sososo much better. Because you KNOW he'd be an overprotective, wonderful dad who drives his kids mad with his hovering and bear hugs, and makes Ginny roll her eyes fondly at him: "Because really Harry, you're worried about them getting Firebolts? They've been on Silver Arrows since they were babies." "You put them on WHAT?!" "They barely went five feet off the ground." "They couldn't walk yet!"

BUT TALKING ABOUT GINNY. "Darkness from unexpected places"? Read a brilliant theory on Reddit which I hate but now can't get out of my head: WHAT IF THE REMNANTS OF THE HORCRUX COME BACK TO HAUNT HER? OR HARRY?

ALSO, WHO'S THE EFFING CURSED CHILD? IF IT'S SNAPE AND THAT'S WHY IT'S FOCUSSED ON ALBUS SEVERUS FREAKING POTTER, SOMEONE'S BEING CRUCIOED! IF ALBUS AND LILY AREN'T IN SLYTHERIN AND LITTLE HELLIONS, THERE IS NO WIZARDING GOD!

(pleasepleaseplease let Harry be the 'cursed child', so it'd be all about the Dursleys and abuse and things coming out about it in public, where Harry has to be like, "Cupboard? What cupboard?" which none of the Weasleys believe for a moment, and while Ginny's worrying and planning homicides Al sees some of his dad's memories in a Penisieve, which is when all hell breaks loose and…yes. All in Part 1)

(it might also be a musical, just saying, with Darren Criss+British accent in the starring role because, let's be serious now, we're all hoping for that)


	8. A Quick-Quotes' Flutter

**A/N:** How does _Harry Potter_ keep sucking me back into its abyss? _Cursed Child_ is entirely to blame, seeing as how I spent an all-nighter waiting through 37,000 people (!) to _accio_ a ticket for an August performance of the play. Though it's totally, absolutely worth it! I still can't believe my luck. Anyone else trying to justify a trans-continental trip to London just for this? Where's my fellow obsessive non-European peeps at!

As for the actual fic, this chapter has an odd format. Every section contains snippets from Wizarding Wireless Network shows, newspaper clippings, office memos/minutes, or owl messages/two-way mirrors. There's also a focus on the Potters: more specifically, their married life. Though parts are risqué (-ish), nothing's explicit. It's mainly just, y'know, Ginny being Ginny and Harry being confuddled.

Finally, thank you to all those who've let me know who they'd like to see disappear! I'd especially like to thank morganna12 this chapter, since one of her choices is about to vanish.

* * *

"It's a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up."

— _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

Segment from Wizarding Wireless Network's _Quidditch Queries_

Moira Johnson; 27 May, 2007

"Yo, my homies! Wake up, smell the coffee, and prepare to get soaked this oh-so-typical British morning. As you might've noticed, I'm not _Quidditch Queries_ ' normal presenter. There's been a coup d'état in the Wizarding Wireless Network's studio, ladies and gents, and I've crawled and bled my way to the top.

"No, but seriously. Lee's on vacation and I'm Moira, his sexier counterpart, here for your entertainment. As well as to impart important information, obviously. For example? If you lot crack open your eyes enough to glance out your window, you'll see a hideous amount of rain slamming against the glass. Either it or my melodic voice from your radio likely woke you up. My bet's on the rain. Not that this is unusual, but it's odd that this is the same no matter where in Britain you currently are. I think only Northern Scotland isn't getting hit by this storm, and if that isn't hilarious I don't know what is. For once in their lives, people in Aberdeen are looking at their unnervingly sunny weather and cackling at us.

"Alas, there is more to life than storm clouds—least, that's what I think my producer's furiously mouthing at me. He's also dramatically pointing at a _Prophet_ headline, as though I haven't already gotten the hint. Alright, alright! News rundown, peeps. While you were sleeping, Puddlemere United announced their next season's line-up. The main controversy around that is how they've snatched up Demelza Robins from the Appleby Arrows. No news on how the former contract was voided, but rumour has it the Arrows' Head Coach was bellowing furiously at the Ministry's Department of Magical Games and Sports.

"But this won't be the Quidditch news at the tip of everyone's tongue. We've had word that Roger Davies, Head Coach for the Falmouth Falcons, went missing from his Edinburgh home three days ago. Last to see him was his fiancée Cho Chang. Senior Auror Ron Weasley, in charge of the case, declined to comment to reporters by citing that this was an ongoing case. Chang and family of Davies have also been silent, giving a single statement through their lawyer requesting privacy. But bits of news have leaked out. An inside source has revealed that Davies' disappearance might have nothing to do with his stunning but controversial lead of the Falcons' to Quidditch fame. The source also had an insight as to why the Aurors rather than the hit-wizards were looking into this. A possible link has developed between this case and the earlier disappearance of Charlotte Fawcett, who went missing from Hogsmeade in April. With this, Fawcett's parents have renewed their public pleas for information concerning their daughter.

"That's enough speculation for today, folks. Especially when our first guest this morning is the brilliant Elizabeth Szilvassy, Keeper for the Tutshill Tornados. With her setting the League aflame, breaking Keeping records left and right, and speaking out in support of non-humans like herself, this girl's making us all look bad. Eliza, lovely to meet you. First up, I've gotta ask. As a half-vampire, are you freaking gleeful on overcast days like today?"

* * *

Bumps and Babies! — Miranda Rotchill

 _Witch Weekly_ ; 28 May, 2007

All of us at _Witch Weekly_ are just giddy, because baby fever's catching! The number of bump-watches is making us think something's in the water. Which, to be fair, wouldn't be that stunning. I think we all remember the Amorentia-spiking of 2003! I know I'll never look at pumpkin juice the same way, though I can't think of a better way to ring in the new year.

With so many bundles of joy springing out of the trenches, it was hard to decide which photo to use this week. But we couldn't resist this adorable photo of the Potter family on a recent outing in Diagon Alley. With so few pictures released of their children, it's a delight to see this candid captured moment. Aren't they precious? Seeing Harry Potter give his toddler James a piggy-back ride while holding his godson Teddy Lupin back from racing off will make many witches (ourselves included) coo at the cuteness. Baby Albus, held by Ginny Potter, can't be properly seen in this photo as the poor dear's wrapped up against the evening's chill. Also, do you see Mrs. Potter's baby bump? It's crystal clear in this photo even though she's only a few months along! Does this spell twins?

The Potters aren't the only ones expecting. Indeed, their extended family's bursting with new babes! Unspeakable Audrey Weasley looks just about ready to pop (with suspicions that big sister Molly II was throwing a tantrum about the new baby), and George and Angelina Weasley have been spotted around with their newborn Roxanne and three year old Fred II. But the big news this week is Ron and Hermione Weasley. Frankly, it's rare that we let an issue pass without mentioning their adorable little Rose Weasley. But a little birdie (or should we say stork?) has told us they're having their second child! They're expecting the babe in late November and, as basic arithmetic tells us, have been sitting on this information for a bit. We at _Witch Weekly_ want to give the couple our congratulations! We also wouldn't mind if Mrs. Weasley shared her secret as to how she keeps so fit.

Our favourite heroic family aside, socialite Amelia Gladrags has just given birth to triplets. Triplets! How will this single mum do it? Maybe she'll share nanny advice with her best friend, Lucretia Botts, who is now overdue by two weeks…

* * *

Remembrance: The 10th Anniversary of the Second War — John Smith

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 30 May, 2007

This morning the Ministry of Magic released a statement with their plans for a year-long remembrance of the Second War, a decade after its end! This news comes with the announcement that the first event will be a candlelight vigil on the 24th June to mark the anniversary of Lord Voldemort's return to life, Harry Potter once again escaped his clutches, and the Second War began. This year-long remembrance will finish just under a year from now on the 2nd of May 2008, with the memorial marking ten years since the final battle at Hogwarts. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt released this statement and will followed with a press conference later this week, in conjunction with Reginald Ripley (Director of the Ministry's Public Information Services and Chairman of the Tenth Anniversary Memorials Committee). The Minister proclaimed his support of this prolonged event, citing it as necessary not only for closure but also to ensure that the events of Lord Voldemort's rise and fall of power are not easily forgotten. From the brief descriptions, it seems that the major ceremonies will correspond with the main events in not only the Second War, but some of the First as well (they will thus correspond with dates rather than a strict year chronology). The ceremonies and memorials with pivotal speakers will be scattered throughout the year, ranging from a gala in the Ministry the 18th of June (commemorating the Battle of the Department of Mysteries), a memorial to Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts 30th June, a boisterous party at the Ministry the 1st of August (the date of Voldemort's take-over of the Ministry in 1997), to a time of silence for the first execution of a muggleborn by Pius Thicknesse's administration.

This plan is already drawing in support of its historical importance and bittersweet celebration of how far our nation has come. However, one significant voice of opposition has already appeared. Head Auror Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, Man Who Conquered, and defeater of Voldemort—gave a scathing public protest to this. He had previously agreed to speak at the memorial at Hogwarts on 2nd May, but has now cancelled that appearance in protest of what he calls: "a ridiculous mockery of the war. They're using it as a blasted excuse to host galas and parties! I've mainly been supportive of Minister Shacklebolt's policies, but I can't believe he agreed to this. Let people mourn without getting idiotic politics involved."

This protest was likely the result of Minister Shacklebolt's announcement that there would be a Halloween Gala at the Ministry to celebrate the end of the First War. This was, of course, the date that marked Head Auror Potter's survival of the killing curse and his parents' murder by Lord Voldemort. Shacklebolt's statement hinted that Potter might speak at this event, but the Wizarding Hero made it clear he would have nothing to do with it.

Hermione and Ron Weasley (Director of Magical Law Enforcement and Senior Auror, respectively), haven't yet made statements. But they were reportedly seen angrily leaving the Minister's office, so it's likely they are of a similar mind to their best friend and brother-in-law.

* * *

From: Hermione Weasley

To: Harry Potter

Harry, I understand. I really do. But you need to calm down and be rational about this. We both know that holding a press conference was unnecessary. I'm sure you can convince Kingsley to cancel the event on Halloween by agreeing (again) to speak at the memorial at Hogwarts. It's something that you even wanted to do! You wouldn't lose anything out of this deal. Ron and I have already spoken to the Minister and he's willing to compromise to get you onboard.

So, yes, this is silly and largely a waste of time. But some of the plans for memorials are actually rather good, and we always knew there would be something to mark the 10th anniversary. Just talk with Kingsley about the specifics and try to be open-minded. Most importantly: please don't hex Ripley again. We all know you're behind the tentacles.

* * *

From: Ron Weasley

To: Harry Potter

Look mate, I get it. This whole thing's bs. And, sure, you went a bit mad holding a press conference (really?), but we've all been there. Completely justifiable.

If Hermione asks, I tried to convince you to 'come to your senses' and go along with the Ministry's plans. But honestly, I say keep going with the protest. I swear this isn't (only) because I want to see you embarrass yourself. Shacklebolt has gone around the bend, what with listening to that stupid git Ripley. I say keep screaming at reporters about this to your heart's content!

* * *

From: Harry Potter

To: Hermione Weasley and Ron Weasley

Hermione, I'm not giving into this charade. It's the principle of the thing! Bad enough they're making it last all year, but they want me to celebrate that Halloween. _Celebrate it!_ Ripley had the nerve to ask me to make a speech about 'my heroics' when I was a baby: "Though, Mr. Potter, you might want to gloss over the delicate matter of your parents' deaths. Best to keep the mood bright." I'd like to see you keep your temper. Also, did you see that rubbish statement he and Shacklebolt put out? They're making it a party! 'Memorial' my arse.

Ron, I'm not shouting at reporters and getting myself demoted…though, good try, I'll give you that. But shove off, you aren't helping. Also, shouldn't the two of you be working? You _do_ realise we're trying to run a department here, yeah? So stop getting on me about my promotion (Which I like! Shut it Ron! And yeah, you're still stuck with McLaggen!) or bugging me about the Ministry's newest idiotic idea (Which I'm not going to support! Hermione, you aren't convincing me otherwise).

* * *

Vanished Into Thin Air — Emmanuel Stevens

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 3 June, 2007

Head Auror Harry Potter yesterday announced that his department was investigating a series of missing person cases. This comes at the tail of the disappearance of Lucretia Botts, heiress of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Botts' status became known when her newborn son, Tyler Botts, was found crying in Surrey's Surbiton Station. An inside source in the Ministry has told the _Prophet_ that muggle CCTV had captured Miss Botts disappearing right from her seat while waiting for a train. The small child was left to slide to the floor. He was soon after found: poking at dead moths and Flitterbies, unaware that his mother had vanished. Though Tyler is unhurt and with his father (Albert Fleming, divorced from Botts), the whereabout and state of Miss Botts is unknown.

Senior Auror Ron Weasley is in charge of this case (with Auror Cormac McLaggen assisting). He is also leading the investigations on the disappearances of Charlotte (Lottie) Fawcett and Roger Davies. With Head Auror Potter's announcement that the three cases are somehow linked, worries are already sweeping the nation. There is little need to remind any of how rare it is for wizards or witches to 'disappear without a trace'. We at the _Prophet_ wish the best for those affected, hope that the Aurors will swiftly bring the perpetrators to justice, and as ever remind our readers to be careful.

* * *

Worth a Thousand Words — Romilda Vane

 _Witch Weekly_ ; 10 June, 2007

It's the picture that's bringing a nation to a halt. Charlotte (Lottie) Fawcett earlier this Spring was a shy inventor at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, fresh out of Hogwarts and dreaming of what would come next. But this young beauty could have never foreseen that she would become the face of one of the most insidious crimes since the First and Second Wars.

A spree of disappearances across the United Kingdom have brought Wizarding Britain to an uproar. It began with Fawcett's capture in June, but is now linked to possibly as much as a dozen vanishings and become one of the Aurors' top priorities. Though famous names such as Falmouth Falcons' Head Coach Roger Davies and socialite Lucretia Botts have also fell victim, the iconic image with the crimes is one now familiar to us all: Fawcett at her Hogwarts' graduation, her father's proud arm wrapped around her shoulders, laughing carefree as her black robes and long hair whipped around her short gold dress.

This photo's fame didn't come instantly. The picture gained popularity slowly, on the cover on magazines when her disappearance was still fresh, then being pushed to the middle of the _Daily Prophet_ , and only now, as the terror mounts, has it moved up page by page. The giggling, innocent graduate has resonated with many. Some emotions are uncouth: from boys lusting after her bare legs, to the minor controversy over if Fawcett's mother was getting funds for 'selling' the photo to some publication. But most of us worry for the 'girl next door' while the worried populace are starting to gaze at this cheerful girl and wonder if they could be next.

Also, uncouth or not, commentators are beginning to hoist up the photo as proof of the Ministry's incompetence. For as the number of missing mount, murdered beasts continue to shock London, and the Aurors remain oddly quiet on this matter, many of us are starting to wonder. While the Ministry is celebrating the anniversary of Voldemort's demise, are they ignoring a new Dark Lord in our midst?

* * *

 _Fashion or Folly?_ — Miranda Rotchill

Segment from _Witch Weekly_ and Wizarding Wireless Network; 19 June, 2007

"Hello, lovelies! Welcome to 'Fashion or Folly?' brought to you by _Witch Weekly_ and WWN. This week, all are abuzz about the 'Unspeakably' wondrous Ministry of Magic gala. Having taken place yesterday in the Department of Mysteries, the event was part of the Ministry's year-long remembrance of the Second War. This gala marked the anniversary of the public revealing of Lord Voldemort's rebirth. Current Head Auror Harry Potter had actually been proclaiming that Voldemort was alive for a year, but was disbelieved until the Dark Lord himself made an appearance in the Ministry itself.

"But this gala was hardly dreary. Storming with everyone from Wizengamot members to star-studded socialites, the evening featured speeches by those who were in the Ministry that day alongside a surprise concert by the luminous Hog's Boils! The fashion was, admittedly, hit-and-miss, but there were some stand-out performances.

"Front and centre were the Longbottom and Scamander families, as Hogwarts Professor Neville Longbottom and famed magizoologist Luna Scamander were two of the students who partook in the Ministry battle against the Death Eaters. Professor Longbottom opted for muggle attire, keeping it slick and simple with a tailored black jacket over a hemmed shirt and admittedly scruffy trousers—had the Herbology teacher been gardening right before showing up? His wife, Hannah Longbottom, cut a stunning path in an elegant dress: a strapless yellow number draped with delicate black lace.

"Unlike the Longbottoms, the verdict is still out on the Scamanders. Mrs. Scamander's bubbly smile was a welcome sight, but her blue Victorian gown left something to be desired. Particularly as the bursting hems had a nasty habit of nibbling on passerbys. Her husband, equally famed magizoologist Rolf Scamander, didn't seem to have understood this was a gala. Or is his idea of a black tie outfit a costume of Sherlock Holmes? Is this because the couple are consulting on the Aurors' hideous cases of dissected magical creatures? Whatever it may be, the 'interesting' couple spent much of the evening bustling up and down the dance floor, peering in corners and beneath tables with Mr. Scamander's large magnifying glass. When asked what they were looking for, they quite neatly replied that they weren't about to give up a perfectly good opportunity to search the Ministry for 'Heliopaths'—whatever they might be.

"Almost as interesting as the guests were the ones who did not make an appearance at the event. Mr. Potter has been critical of the Ministry's plans since the year-long anniversary was announced. So, it is unsurprising that he, his wife ( _Prophet_ reporter Ginny Potter), and his best friends Ron and Hermione Weasley (Senior Auror and Director of Magical Law Enforcement, respectively) did not come to the gala. In fact, the only Weasleys spotted was Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Percy Weasley, and his wife, Unspeakable Audrey. Both looked queasy as soon as the speeches gave way to the Hog's Boils, and soon after made a quick exit.

"Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt has been largely silent on the recent rift between him and Mr. Potter, claiming that it is wholly the 'Man Who Conquered''s right to face the anniversary of the Second War however he wishes. All I know, dear listeners, is that the four war heroes and heartthrobs were horribly missed at the gala. This is only partly due to fashion icon Mrs. Potter's stunning sense of style—don't we all remember that itsy bitsy emerald green dress from her's and Mr. Potter's engagement photos? I swear, I didn't last a week before giving in and buying a knock off…saying nothing of how quickly copies of her wedding dress flew off the counters."

* * *

To: Miranda Rotchill, of _Witch Weekly_

From: Ginny Potter, from _Daily Prophet_ headquarters

As I've told everyone else: nope, not giving a comment about any Auror case. As for the Ministry gala, I didn't go because my husband and I both felt it was making a mockery out of the war. Your coverage of the evening proved as much. If there's an actual memorial, Harry and I _might_ be there.

That aside, I'm not sure whether to thank you for calling me a 'fashion icon' or recommend you get your eyes checked. Have you missed how many of my outfits are mismatched and covered with baby drool? Or that my engagement and wedding photos you referenced in your programme were both leaked to the press: specifically to _Witch Weekly_ and your column, if I remember correctly.

Finally, you should be glad Luna and Rolf had taken it upon themselves to search for Heliopaths. Or would you prefer the Ministry be overrun with ferocious fire demons at the next gala? Might spice things up a touch.

* * *

Shackle-Not? — John Smith

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 28 June, 2007

Election season is beginning early this year, and the candidates for Minister of Magic have never been more controversial. This is a stunning turn of events, as even a few months ago it would have been assumed that popular Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt would have no serious competition. Running for his third term, though the current Minister still has a healthy lead he's falling in the polls with each passing day.

Shacklebolt was once viewed as a competent and down-to-earth figure, having solidified this reputation when he served a term as Interim Minister of Magic and a second elected term as Minister after the Second War (from 1998-2002 and 2002-today, where Rufus Scrimgeour (deceased) and Pius Thicknesse (incarcerated) both served in 1997). Shacklebolt was also who inaugurated the public election system for the office in 2002 as, previous to that, the Minister of Magic was not an elected position. It seemed, for a time, that Scrimgeour could do no wrong. This was boosted by his crucial role in the Second War and his close friendships with other war heroes.

The issue rests in how Britain is rapidly losing confidence with the Minister. London has been on edge for months as an escalating amount of murdered magical creatures are appearing in the city centre. More worryingly, with each passing day numerous witches and wizards across the United Kingdom have been vanishing into thin air. Though the Ministry has been proclaiming that its Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Corp are working night and day to bring these criminals to justice, the lack of progress is beginning to seem inexcusable.

At a Ministry Protest March last week in Manchester, the dark horse candidate for Minister took the stage. Wizengamot member Cornelius Fudge (who served as Minister of Magic from 1990-1996) was cheerful at the turn-out, but proclaimed his dismay at the "shambles" the Ministry has become since the end of his tenure.

"Shameful, is what it is!" Fudge rallied the crowd to great cheers. "Our once proud government is coasting by, living off of by-gone days. It is one thing to honour the heroes from the last war, but it is high time we stopped worshipping them! They cannot use their fame as an excuse to coast by and let our nation fall into shambles. Shacklebolt has had his day, nepotism has had its day: it is high time WE HAD OUR DAY!"

Fudge was, of course, referencing Shacklebolt's (in)famous close friendship with Head Auror Harry Potter and the Weasley family. But this friendship is battering at Shacklebolt from both sides. While many now doubt the Minister's as well as the Aurors' competence, supporters of Potter (many of whom have even wished that Potter himself would run for Minister) are also distancing themselves from Shacklebolt. This is because of the recent public dispute between the two: Shacklebolt has been supporting a year-long memorial for the Second War while Potter has protested these plans, calling the 'memorials' mere excuses to have galas.

Whatever the case, the November election is gearing up to be a tight race. The outcome might wholly depend on how quickly the crime sprees can be brought to a close and how the Shacklebolt/Potter dispute works out.

* * *

Terror in the Streets! What's Wrong With the Ministry? — Scarlett James

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 7 July, 2007

With the number of missing wizards and witches mounting, and with Londoners increasingly on edge as more and more butchered magical creatures are found in their city, criticism has come down heavily on the Ministry of Magic. While the Auror Department is in charge of both the crime sprees, next to no developments have been announced. Indeed, there have been few press conferences for either concern, and even fewer suspects have been brought in for questioning.

Senior Auror Lisa Turpin (in charge of the magical creatures' killings) and Senior Auror Ron Weasley (in charge of the investigation of the missing people) have come under attack for their relative quiet, both citing that they cannot comment of these ongoing cases. Also under scrutiny is Head Auror Harry Potter. Weasley's former partner, they each have impressive solved records of field cases (as does Turpin). The issue most have raised is that Potter only became Head Auror this past January, only being Deputy Head for a short period before former Head Gawain Robards retired. With this, Potter became the youngest Head Auror in history (paralleled by his earlier honour of being the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class in modern history). Potter's post was initially met with enthusiasm, due to his previous stunning record as well as his famous role in the Second War as the defeater of Lord Voldemort. But now, in the face of the Aurors' failure to stop these heinous crimes, we have to wonder if Potter is truly up to the job.

Another note raising eyebrows is the nepotism that has flooded the Ministry of Magic. It has escaped no one's notice that the positions of power have been flooded by heroes of the war—many of whom are either good friends or related to each other. This has been abundantly seen in Britain's law enforcement, where the Director of Magical Law Enforcement is Hermione Weasley, wife to Senior Auror Ron Weasley—their brother-in-law and best friend is none other than the Head Auror and 'Wizarding Saviour' himself. In addition, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt has close ties to all three of them and, though there have been rumours of a falling out between Potter and Shacklebolt, it is unsettling. In fact, it would almost be simpler to list who in the top tiers of the Ministry isn't in the Weasley/Potter family or a close family friend. We the public were willing to abide by this so long as it was clear that the Ministry was running smoothly, but the shambles in the Auror Department ought to give all pause.

* * *

Hey, miss you.

Now you're laughing at the page, which was my nefarious plan! Go ahead, laugh, I know I'm being silly. Not like I didn't see you this morning. But I'm getting the sense you'll miss dinner tonight, hence this message.

Now you're frowning guiltily at the page. Don't, you dunderhead, it's fine. I know how much pressure you're under and I just want to help. So: no matter what horrid crimes pass your desk, keep in mind that I love you. I. Love. You. No matter how bad this day, week, or month gets, I know a perfect way to make things better. See, whenever you get home tonight, I'll still be up (you aren't the only one with a backlog of work). And sure, we could go to bed and catch up on some sleep.

Or you could unbutton my blouse. I could take off your jacket and you could hastily rip off your shirt. You could grasp me around my hot, naked midriff, kissing my every freckle as I slither out of my tight skirt. Then? Well, you could find out whether I'm wearing knickers today. Try investigating that, Mr. Youngest-Head-Auror-Ever.

As you're 'working' on that mystery, I could find out where your golden snitch tattoo's hiding.

See? Today's not that horrible, now is it.

* * *

Miss you too.

But you have awful timing: I got your owl mid-meeting with Shacklebolt! Was already awkward enough, but then I had to stammer out some awful excuse as to why I started beaming while he was talking about dead unicorns.

How am I supposed to concentrate knowing you're waltzing around the Prophet without knickers! You enjoy torturing me, don't you? So you know, Mrs. Potter, you're an insufferable minx. But don't worry, after your note I'll make sure not to be home too late.

To double-check: you're picking up the boys from mum's, yeah?

* * *

Have a minute?"

"Yeah, but only just. Hey, I was expecting another owl—"

"Un-sexy git!"

"Pardon?"

"Yes, I'm picking up the boys. But did you have to ruin the mood? I was going for a mysteriously risqué message, then you brought up the kids! The screaming, shouting kids who've dried up our sex lives!"

"Ah, okay. Are you just forgetting about yesterday?"

"Banging in my office doesn't count!"

"Of course it counts."

"We've been reduced to doing it at work! At my work! In my office, which is literally surrounded by reporters! That can't end well."

"True. Still, not much better to risk a trigger-happy Auror hearing one of us…you know."

"Scream in ecstasy?"

"…you aren't still surrounded by reporters, right?"

"Jammed myself in a closet for the call."

"Look Ginny, you're overreacting. When we're home tonight I'll, ah, figure out if you're wearing knickers."

"You're whispering. How many people are in the room with you?"

"Tonnes. Could we talk about this later?"

"In that case, Mr. Potter, I want you to know I'm most definitely missing a few articles of clothing. I'm also feeling all stiff. Think I need someone to…loosen me up. Make me scream louder than a mandrake, if you know what I mean. Then I could return the favour by, oh, polishing a broom? Because love, you know I'll be your Chosen One…"

"Stop! Ginny, you don't understand. Hermione and Shacklebolt are right behind me and I can't—"

"And I'll find that stubborn tattoo of yours, oh I will. I don't care where it's flown. I'll lick every inch of…Harry? Harry? Yoo hoo! You still there?"

* * *

Rough draft: Baked Into Pies? — John Smith

 _Daily Prophet_ ; to be published 21 July, 2007

In a parody brought to horrifying life, a recent development has raised a ghastly suggestion as to what has happened to the missing wizards and witches. Has Sweeney Todd come to London?

This previous Sunday, renowned seamstress and war hero Parvati Patil disappeared in front of two witnesses from her Diagon Alley shop, 'Patil's Patterns'. The witnesses were clients of hers and immediately alerted the Ministry, informing the Aurors as well as the Prophet that they'd heard no screams and seen no spells. Patil had simply vanished mid-sentence.

The shop was quickly evacuated as Aurors closed off the scene. Though Senior Auror Ron Weasley (who is leading the case) remained inside, his partner Auror Cormac McLaggen was willing to talk. This was stunning, due to the 'no comment' attitude Weasley has continued throughout this spree.

"Making headway? I wish," Auror McLaggen told reporters in front of 'Patil's Patterns'. He'd just come out of Delicatessen's Bakery next door and was munching on a steak pie between sentences. "The leads are rubbish. We've questioned some blokes, but it's eery as all hell. Nothing sticks, know what I mean? Even if we get the guy, doubt we'd have anything but circumstantial evidence."

He was then asked if they had any theories as to what had happened to the missing people.

"Dead, most like," McLaggen said, wiping a few crumbs off his uniform. "Know how hard it is to hold—what is it, a dozen wizards now? Mighty hard. Don't see why these buggers would bother. If you ask me, it's a matter of time before we start finding the bodies." He paused, letting out a guffaw haw and waving his lunch. "Who knows? Maybe they've been baked into pies! Right good way to hide the evidence."

It was shortly after this that Senior Auror Weasley spotted what was happening and rapidly ended the impromptu press conference. Growling at suggestions that a 'Sweeney Todd' persona was behind the crimes, Weasley called the entire thing complete rubbish. Vanishing McLaggen's unfinished pie in anger, Weasley dragged him back into the crime scene.

Admittedly, the horrific suggestion about the meat in pies was likely meant as an off-cuff joke. But Senior Auror Weasley's immediate denial of this (as well as his outrage towards his partner for revealing such) suggests something far more heinous.

* * *

 **Notes from Emergency Meeting, 20 July, 2007, Merlin Meeting Hall**. The Head and Deputy Aurors, all Senior Aurors, and some Aurors present. Unofficial minutes taken by Orla Quirke, only Junior Auror lucky enough to sit in. Meant for a personal exercise: not for public view. That means YOU, Senior Auror Weasley (sir)! Stop reading my notes! You are aware of what personal property means, hmm?

Head Auror Harry Potter stood at the front, thin-lipped but with a neutral expression. His green eyes were positively sparkling [Is that natural? Doesn't matter: I could stare into those eyes for ages]. He seemed pretty annoyed, like he was going to hex someone. Wonder if that happens a lot?

"A spree of missing people," Potter began softly. The room instantly hushed, it was amazing, "is horrible enough as is. What I want to know? Which of you decided it was a bright idea to push the press into an even bigger panic!"

A confused silence fell. Holy eff, Potter's really ticked off. It's this calm, terrifying fury sort of thing. No wonder Voldy was scared of him!

"Ah, Harry?" Susan [Drat: Deputy Head Susan Bones, duh] said. But she was cut off.

"You know an advantage to being married to a Prophet reporter?" Potter continued, voice still soft, calm, and sexy. "I've gotten a sneak peek at tomorrow's headlines. Seems the Prophet's decided to call the kidnapper 'Sweeney Todd'. Anyone want to hazard a guess why?"

Silence. Again. Everyone's still terrified of being hexed.

A single hand rose, as though we were back in school [I can't blame him]. Potter sent Senior Auror Dmitri Szilvassy a pointed look.

"Because they're calling the creatures' killers the 'Rippers'?" Szilvassy tried, lowering his hand.

"Good guess. Completely wrong," Potter said sarcastically. "How about I rephrase my question? Which of you thought it'd be a grand idea to tell reporters that not only are all the missing dead—oh no. That their corpses had then been made into pies! Bleeding pies! The sort you eat!"

Holy flip.

Senior Auror Ron Weasley gave an hysteric giggle [Correction: Senior Auror Weasley took an ILLEGAL look through my notes and claims he gave a very manly, humourless chuckle, which was solely at Potter's expense rather than the victims']. He stopped it after a moment, but it was enough for him to get on the receiving end of Potter's incredulous glare.

Potter hissed. "Are you f—"

"It wasn't me," Weasley cut off the rant before it turned violent. "Yeah, I've been messing with you. But do you honestly think I'd joke about what might've happened to these people—let alone joke about it to the press?"

There was a tense pause before Potter relaxed. Though he continued to look at Weasley scrutinisingly.

"You know something," Potter said, gaze narrowing. "You know who…oh."

Weasley shrugged. The rest of the room remained lost—though more than a few of us were sad the latest Potter/Weasley fight didn't look like it'd result in a brawl or a snog. There are rather a lot of bets on that, you see. I have twenty galleons that they'll 'get over' the sexual tension by October.

[Again, as Senior Auror Weasley ILLEGALLY stole a peek at my notes (I don't have song lyrics in here: there's no conspiracy, we're just talented!) I'm required to write a correction: I fully understand that Potter and Weasley are both happily married (note: not to each other), are both straight, and that while I'm technically allowed to cherish yaoi fantasies about my bosses, I'm not allowed to bet on such. Nor can I spread any of that as gossip as I'd be a horrible person to do so. Finally, I want to note that Senior Auror Weasley is a prude, is adorably cute with his wife but is obviously obsessed with Potter (do I sense a threesome?), and that he ought to be pleased us recruits are writing about his arse].

[Not that I write about your arse, sir. Or Potter's. Or both. Or other shapely body parts, as it were].

[Senior Auror Weasley AGAIN looked at my notes. So now I have to write that the 'Golden Trio' isn't having ravenous threesome sex, and that I'll stop writing gossip and/or erotic fiction about my hot bosses].

[Senior Auror Weasley clearly doesn't understand the concept of private property. Because of this, I also have to explicitly state that I was joking, no erotic fiction exists, and even if it did I wouldn't spread it to my coworkers and/or the press, for moral as well as legal reasons].

[Sexy spoilsport].

"He didn't?" Potter said weakly, apparently not caring to explain. "How'd he even get to pies?"

"There was a pie shoppe," Weasley answered. "In his defence, it was meant to be a joke. A stupid joke told to some reporters."

Senior Auror Lisa Turpin coughed. "For those of us who can't read each other's minds?" Thank you!

Weasley snorted. Potter sent him another glare, then addressed the rest of us.

"Seems McLaggen made an idiotic joke, so now we have to deal with imaginary cannibalism," Potter gritted out. A quick peek around told me Auror Cormac McLaggen wasn't in the room. "In other news, if anyone wants to switch jobs with me…"

Weasley gave a beam at this, but before he could speak Szilvassy's face had burst into a terrifying grin.

"It's priest," Szilvassy sang, turning to his partner Auror Su Li. She also seemed delighted. "Have a little priest! Is it really good? Sir, it's too good, at least."

"What?" Potter deadpanned. He'd clearly never seen a musical in his life: poor guy. This was when Li also burst into song. Bless them both.

"Awful lot of fat only where it sat," Li sang, "haven't you got poet, or something like that?"

"No, y'see the trouble with poet is," Szilvassy grinned, ignoring the rest of the room, "'ow do you know it's deceased? Try the priest."

"Lawyer's rather nice," I couldn't help but jump in. Potter and Weasley sent me twin exasperated looks [Is this why my notebook keeps getting grabbed for 'random inspections'?]. Szilvassy and Li beamed at me. "If it's for a price. Order something else though, to follow, since no one should swallow it twice."

"You have a lovely voice," Szilvassy commented, halting the song. "Mezzo-soprano?"

"Thanks," I absolutely didn't blush. "And yeah, sure. Whatever you think."

Weasley was blinking at us (along with the rest of the room, except for the few humming along). "The hell was that?"

"Sweeney Todd, you uncultured swine," Li sniffed. "A brilliant song about the tastes of different professions baked into pies!"

Szilvassy was partly more helpful. "It's a musical by Stephen Sondheim. Rather good, I highly recommend it. It's playing in the West End right now, so easy to catch. If not, we'll happily sing the rest of the songs. That one, so you know, is 'A Little Priest'. Get it? A little piece of priest pie? Priest baked into the pie? Hilarious, I know."

Potter slowly closed and reopened his eyes, taking in a massively deep breath. He's overdramatic like that. "I repeat: if anyone wants my job, I'm sick of dealing with this madhouse."

"Well you—"

"Shut it, Ron."

"If you're British and royal," Szilvassy began again (and was met with cheers and groans—rather more groans than cheers, unfortunately), "you might enjoy Royal Marine. Anyway, it's clean. Though it tastes of wherever it's been!"

"Is that squire on the fire? Mercy no sir, look closer. You'll notice it's grocer," I couldn't resist.

Potter looked slowly from one of us to the next, rubbing his forehead as though holding back a headache. Oops. "The hell's wrong with you people?"

"Now, let's see. Here we've got tinker," Li kept singing. Holding up an imaginary piece of pie, she 'tossed it' to Szilvassy.

Szilvassy 'sniffed it' then threw it away. "Something pinker."

"Tailor?" Another pie slice. Another rejection.

"Paler. Butler?"

"Subtler. Potter?"

"I hate all of you," our esteemed Head Auror brought an end to the spontaneous musical. Sexy spoilsport.

* * *

A Not-So-Happy-Birthday — Jacob Grimes

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 30 July, 2007

All isn't well with the famous Potter family this week. While Head Auror Harry Potter has been readying for his 27th birthday on the 31st of July, his wife Ginny Potter has had other plans. A controversial couple—one fraught with rumours of Amorentia, violent fighting, and a myriad of affairs—it seems that Mrs. Potter has finally had enough. Spotted exiting Gringotts yesterday, an inside source informed the Prophet that she was there to consult over her oncoming divorce.

That's right, divorce! Though the papers haven't been filed, the word at Gringotts was clear that Mrs. Potter was looking over the Potter family's financials. Looking for a loophole in the prenup?

Neither Mr. or Mrs. Potter are innocents in their tumultuous relationship. From rumours of her keeping him dosed on Amorentia, to the gossip of him sleeping with best friend and sister-in-law Hermione Weasley, this divorce has been a long-time coming. Though it is tragic that their two children will be caught in the middle. We also must question the paternity of Mrs. Potter's current unborn child: is this the straw that broke the Gryffin's back?

* * *

31 July, 2007

Okay okay, I know you don't like me sending sexy innuendoes in Howlers (it was only twice!), but I guessed writing a completely harmless note would be welcome. Especially if it came with a little drawing Jamie and Al made for their daddy—no idea what it's supposed to be, but it's gorgeous!

Happy birthday, love. Feeling older? Wiser? Greyer? You replied pretty clearly this morning to the contrary, but I thought I'd ask again. It's been a few hours, after all. Also, I did promise you a birthday surprise. I'm sure you assumed it would wait until we were home, but that's where your super Auror skills have failed you.

I love you. I love you an exceedingly huge amount, and the last thing I want is for you to be bogged down by the missing people on your birthday. You more than deserve a break. So I've cleared my schedule and resolved to try my best to distract you. I more than understand if you're busy, but I'm here whenever you need me.

Yes, here. As in your office. Nope, don't look around worryingly—I know you must be! Don't panic, this is supposed to be fun. You get to find me. When you do, you'll get a prize.

I'll give you a few hints, shall I? First off, I'm horrendously underdressed. In fact, I'm only wearing one piece of 'clothing'. I'd be wearing even less, but I needed your Invisibility Cloak to sneak in here. It's even managed to cover my ridiculous belly! Though, knowing your odd attraction to pregnant-me, you'll want to whip this Cloak off as soon as possible. Which will be lovely, as it's cramped enough underneath your desk.

Yes, exactly.

Reach down and unwrap your present, Head Auror Potter.

* * *

The Sign of the Apocalypse — Ginny Potter

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 4 August, 2007

The world's going to hell in a hand basket. Least, that's what the Prophet would have you believe. Why am I allowed to write that, you ask? Because the editor-in-chief Abigail Rivers has informed me on no fewer than five occasions that I am not allowed to quit in protest to libelous articles about my family, as I'm under contract. I, being my passive aggressive self, have interpreted that to mean that I have carte blanche to write whatever I so wish, and the Prophet has to publish it.

Luckily for you, I'm not the vindictive type. So I'm not going to rant about the idiots accusing me of dosing my husband with Amorentia, or hex the idiots who can't make up their damn minds about whether my husband's a hero or a louse, or laugh hysterically at the idiots who're running for the hills thinking they're going to be baked into pies (seriously?). Instead, this column will remain one of the few sane lights in the dark of this bloody paper. You're welcome.

Meanwhile, over here in Quidditchland? If you hear shocked gasps from us, don't worry, it's not because we're being horrifically murdered and/or kidnapped. Nor is it because we're dismayed that an incompetent, bloody coward has a chance at being the next Minister of Magic. Nope, it's because none of us can believe the start of this electrifying season! That's because the first match resulted in the Falmouth Falcons (last year's champions) losing to underdog team, the Chudley Cannons.

You read that right, my fellow obsessives. I'm not even sure how to commentate because I'm, 1.) Saddened that Falmouth's previous Head Coach Roger Davies is missing, 2.) Overjoyed his cheating scumbag of a team has finally gotten its just deserts, 3.) Oddly delighted at how adorably the Cannons are reacting to a win, and 4.) Horrified I've lost a bet to my brother Ron and that I'll now have to wear the Cannons' ghastly orange to every Quidditch match this year (the git knows all too well how horribly it clashes with red hair).

In short, the game was a shambles. Without Davies Falmouth's roster fell apart at its seams, where many of the players seemed confused as to which goal they should be aiming for. Once I get over my shock, I'll likely wonder if there might have been confuddling concoctions at fault here. Or maybe the multiple championship team is simply this bad without the cheating douchebag Davies. As a side-note, I ought to mention that this wasn't meant to be personal, it's just Quidditch. Davies would be the first to understand this, seeing as how he 'jokingly' wished I'd have a miscarriage so I wouldn't return to the Harpies. It's not offensive, it's Quidditch trash talk: overly harsh and dark to everyone not in the League. So while I wish all the best to his family and hope for his safe return, I can tell Davies to suck it because there's now proof he's a dirty, rotten fraud. 'Championship team' my arse. They just lost to the Cannons! If this wasn't so ridiculous, it'd be hysterical.

In other news, no one's even bothering to bet about the results of the upcoming match next weekend. But Ron, if you wish: double or nothing on the Harpies wiping the floor with the Cannons? When the Harpies win, I'll get to stop wearing the Cannons' colours. If the Harpies somehow, miraculously lose, I'll talk Harry into doing the You Know What that You Know Who's (you, you moron) been ranting about. What d'you say? Also, to everyone reading this who's not Ron or Harry: that wasn't an innuendo, you creeps. It's secret Auror stuff. So secret that it can only be put in code in a Quidditch column…which I'm absolutely not including solely to piss off my tyrannical boss who insists I keep writing for a newspaper that keeps insulting my family.

To people who wish to hear my true, proper thoughts on the beginning of the season, I recommend you turn to The Quibbler where I freelance a weekly Quidditch column. For no profit to me, might I add, so it doesn't interfere with my ridiculous Prophet contract.

* * *

Amorentia in the Air! — Abigail Rivers, Editor-in-Chief

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 9 August, 2007

With so much dark news lately, we at the Prophet were happy to receive some pictures of a famous family and looked forward to telling a nice tale about their adorable antics. But our intentions were pushed to the wayside when we more closely examined these photos of the Potters on a family lunch in Diagon Alley.

The sequence of pictures show the foursome (plus godson Teddy Lupin) sitting down at an outside table of the Leaky Cauldron and ordering their meals. After a few minutes of talking, Head Auror Harry Potter walked inside. Almost immediately Ginny Potter (a Quidditch reporter for this very paper) took an unknown vial out of her purse and poured it into her husband's butterbeer. Shortly after Mr. Potter returned he drank some of it, smiled, and immediately kissed Mrs. Potter.

A happy couple? Many think not. Even before Mr. and Mrs. Potter were married rumours abounded that not all was as it seemed. It is a common query here and in other papers whether this marriage was in fact a product of a slipped love potion. The picture accompanying this article clearly shows Mrs. Potter putting something into the war hero's drink, and though it's faint, analysis here at the Prophet has theorised that there is an Amorentia-like pink tone to it. Amorentia is one of the most powerful love potions there is, and it's horrifying to think that the Man Who Conquered has been 'captured' by this woman and forced into a loveless marriage.

Long-term exposure to Amorentia has been known to have other, exceedingly grim side effects. One of which is a dimming of the mind. Could this be why our once great hero is now fumbling to save us from the latest calamity hitting our nation?

* * *

To: Abigail Rivers

From: Ginny Potter

The hell Rivers? My comment about having NOT dosed my husband with Amorentia WASN'T an invitation to write an article accusing me of that! Though it's none of your business, all I did was put a headache reliever in his tea. He knew I'd done it! Obviously! I was holding his medicine since I had a purse. That's it! He gets migraines, who cares. 'Dimming the mind'? Are you mad? The only one who has anything wrong with them is you!

The near constant articles saying that Harry and I are divorcing are hurtful enough, but this has to stop. Pissed at me or no, there'd better be a retraction in the next issue.

* * *

Correction: Amorentia in the Air? — Abigail Rivers, Editor-in-Chief

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 10 August, 2007

With so much dark news lately, we at the Prophet were happy to receive some pictures of a famous family and looked forward to telling a nice tale about their adorable antics. But our intentions were pushed to the wayside when we more closely examined these photos of the Potters on a family lunch in Diagon Alley.

The sequence of pictures show the foursome (plus godson Teddy Lupin) sitting down at an outside table of the Leaky Cauldron and ordering their meals. After a few minutes of talking, Head Auror Harry Potter walked inside. Almost immediately Ginny Potter (a Quidditch reporter for this very paper) took an unknown vial out of her purse and poured it into her husband's butterbeer. Shortly after Mr. Potter returned he drank some of it, smiled, and immediately kissed Mrs. Potter.

A happy couple? Many think not. Even before Mr. and Mrs. Potter were married rumours abounded that not all was as it seemed. It is a common query here and in other papers whether this marriage was in fact a product of a slipped love potion. The picture accompanying this article clearly shows Mrs. Potter putting something into the war hero's drink, and though it's faint, analysis here at the Prophet has theorised that there is an Amorentia-like pink tone to it. Amorentia is one of the most powerful love potions there is, and it's horrifying to think that the Man Who Conquered has been 'captured' by this woman and forced into a loveless marriage.

Long-term exposure to Amorentia has been known to have other, exceedingly grim side effects. One of which is a dimming of the mind. Could this be why our once great hero is now fumbling to save us from the latest calamity hitting our nation?

 *** Correction to original story:** Ginny Potter has alleged to us that the potion she dosed her husband with was medicine to treat his chronic migraines. If this is the case, we at the Prophet wish Mr. Potter a speedy recovery and hope his mental processes can be healed.

* * *

To: Abigail Rivers

From: Ginny Potter

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I DIDN'T MEAN TO REPRINT THE EFFING ARTICLE! 'Hope his mental processes can be healed'? You make it sound like Harry's brain damaged! He gets headaches, you idiot: like the ones you're constantly giving me! And I didn't dose him with anything, he asked me to put it in. Are you trying to get sued? Seriously, are you? Because I'll happily oblige!

* * *

11 August, 2007

Hey Love,

Happy Birthday! Know I said it this morning, but I've had a fantastic thought. What about if you—hear me out—stopped sending your boss Howlers and relaxed today. Yeah, relaxed. Remember what that feels like? Some distant memory in the back of your head?

Don't laugh at me, I know I'm being hypocritical. To solve that I'll take my own advice. So Ginny: want to run away with me? I have our old Firebolts, I jammed all my meetings into this morning, Sue's in charge of the Aurors for the afternoon, and I happen to know your next deadline isn't for three days.

By the way, see how I mentioned our Firebolts? I might or might not be floating outside the Prophet's main window on the third floor (y'know, the one with the swishy black lines by your office?), and I'm likely being gawked at by your coworkers. And being mercilessly photographed.

Want to give them something real to gossip about?

* * *

Jack the Ripper and Sweeney Todd Copycats! Is Anyone Safe? — Abigail Rivers

 _Daily Prophet_ ; 2 September, 2007

Britain beware, serial killers are loose in our midst! With everyone from humans, werewolves, to vampires being hunted down, panic has gripped the nation. This week has brought a new round of terrifying crimes.

The Rippers have struck again. Nailed to the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10 in London's King's Cross Station, the Ministry wasn't quick enough to stop a drove of muggles and young witches and wizards (on their way to Hogwarts the morning of 1st September) from spotting the naked and dismembered body of a Veela. As the obliviators struggled to keep the situation under control while Aurors blocked the gruesome sight from the screaming children, crowds backed up as no one could enter the Platform 9 ¾ (which led to the Hogwarts Express). The crowds only thinned out after Hogwarts teachers appeared with portkeys, hurriedly sorting the students into groups to transport to the castle. It was only around noon that the short-term situation had been resolved, though much of King's Cross was closed for the rest of the day as the Aurors struggled to retain an even somewhat clean crime scene.

Just a day earlier, Samuel Gideon (ex-guitarist for the Weird Witches and current model for Gladrags) went missing from his country home in Kent. His vanishing was marked by his housekeeper, who had left him in the kitchen pouring tea but soon after raced back in at the clang of the kettle hitting the floor. Gideon was nowhere to be seen, having vanished straight through his house's extensive wards.

Rumours have recently circulated about what might be happening to the bodies of the missing people. Supported by an Auror's comment, it's been suggested that the bodies have somehow been put into pies. Because of this, the group of kidnappers have begun to be known as the 'Sweenies' (off of folklore character Sweeney Todd, a murdering barber who hid his crimes by breaking down his victims' bodies into meat for pies). No word yet how heavily the Aurors are looking into this theory, or if they're in the process of investigating pie shoppes and bakeries near the crime scenes.

* * *

"You sir, you sir, how about a shave?  
Come and visit your good friend Sweeney.  
You sir, too sir? Welcome to the grave! […]

Who sir, you sir? No one in the chair, come on! Come on!  
Sweeney's waiting. I want you bleeders…  
You sir—anybody! Gentlemen, now don't be shy!

Not one man, no, nor ten men. Nor a hundred can assuage me,  
I will have you!"

—Sweeney Todd, Sweeney Todd

* * *

A/N: There's a lot of different storylines this chapter! If it helps, most of these things are subplots (at best) while others were only mentioned to show the passage of time. For example, while I absolutely recommend you YouTube Sweeney Todd's 'A Little Priest', understanding that song isn't necessary to the plot. It's just some comic relief…much like the rest of Orla Quirke's 'interesting' Auror minutes. I promise this won't turn into a Harry/Ron slash fic: I just thought it'd be funny if a few Aurors thought otherwise.

What you should keep your eyes on? The 'Ripper' and 'Sweeney' crime sprees, the Shacklebolt/Fudge election for Minister of Magic, and the events for the year-long memorial/remembrance of the Second War.


	9. A Veela's Vanity

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait! This chapter was surprisingly hard to organise (too many silly subplots, I swear), but here you go. An especially huge apology (and huge thank you!) to the wonderful DarkPhoenix! I'm not entirely sure of your username so I'm sorry I couldn't respond to your comments. I'm so glad you're enjoying my story and I hope this update makes up for the wait :D

Finally, Son of Whitebeard, I hope you like who's about to vanish into thin air.

* * *

"Lift your razor high, Sweeney!

Hear it singing, 'Yes!'

Sink it in the rosy skin of righteousness!"

— _Sweeney Todd_

* * *

"Shame it wasn't a woman."

Ron—having been fiddling with Lottie Fawcett's mirror—wasn't listening. He'd been tuning McLaggen's whines out, having no sympathy about his suspension over the Sweeney Todd mess. This was because, a.) It was McLaggen's own bloody fault, b.) Ron had been enjoying not having to deal with the lout, and c.) If Ron heard one more person singing from the musical, he was baking someone into a pie himself.

"Bad enough the bloke was strung up," McLaggen huffed, kicking the edge of Ron's desk. "Ruddy gruesome. But, if it'd been a bird, at least there'd have been a nice view."

Ron (having only caught the last few comments) had no idea what this was referring to. He stared at the mirror, brow furrowing. "What blo…" he stopped, having come to a possible conclusion. But no, not even McLaggen could be that thick. "Tell me you aren't talking about Lisa's case."

"Course I am!" McLaggen answered. "They said we were consulting on a dead Veela. Might've warned us it wasn't a woman!"

Ron slowly lifted his head to stare at him, stunned. "Let me get this right," he cursed Harry for putting him in this position. "Instead of being horrified about the murdered man, or concerned for the mounds of traumatised kids, or massively worried about the ongoing crime sprees…you're pissed off that it wasn't a female Veela?"

"The bloke was naked!"

"He was _brutally killed_ and—Merlin, why am I bothering," Ron gave up trying to decipher McLaggen's thoughts. He considered giving the whole, 'record-his-partner-and-get-him-suspended-for-complete-inappropriateness' thing another try, but that had lost it's appeal after the third go around. Though, recording him and giving the transcript to Hermione had potential; she was becoming more and more brutal with her transfigurations. Last time, the poor bloke had spent a day as a rubber duck. "Fine, go on, tell me about how unfair it is."

As McLaggen happily returned to waxing poetic about hypothetical Veela breasts, Ron flicked his wand to set the recording charm going. With that done, he tuned out his partner and returned to eyeing the mirror.

He'd had high hopes for the object when it'd been found in Fawcett's flat last Spring. Back then, it'd been possible the kidnapping was a personal crime or a stalking case. But when the victims started pilling up the importance of Fawcett's contacts flew out the window.

Ron missed the days when all he had to deal with was a murder-suicide or two, armed robberies, and potential Death Eater sightings. Some cases went cold, sure. But never like this. _This_ , at times, felt like it was his entire caseload. A spree of kidnappings where every possible lead and suspect had run dry. Almost as annoying: the Ministry bureaucrats and the hounding press were all well aware of this.

So, in many ways, having an incompetent partner was the least of his worries.

Ron had been scrutinising the Samuel Gideon crime scene the last few days, like he had done with victim after victim. He'd turned over, questioned, and dismissed everyone who might have wanted Gideon to disappear—just like all of the other kidnappings. He'd interviewed the family, lightly tripped over specifics, and assured them he was trying everything he could—exactly like he had assured all the other families. Because it was the same, like always. Vanished out of the blue. No magical trace. No ransom. No clues.

But this infernally aggravating pattern wasn't why Ron was fiddling with Fawcett's useless mirror. No, this procrastination was because of a different pattern. This one was something he'd actually managed to crack—he just hated the implications. So he was careful to not look at the stack of cold case files lying on his desk. They were from the Aurors, Hit-Wizards, and Scotland Yard. He knew he'd have to confront it soon, but was desperate to put it off even for five more minutes.

Ron pressed back through Fawcett's messages, skimming and not really reading them. He didn't need to: he'd practically memorised what was on the mirror. He knew all about Fawcett's strained relationship with her mum, her amusement at her dad's puns, her long-distance 'book-recommendation-pen-pal' in Bermuda, her weekly catch up with her dorm mates from Hogwarts, and her notes back and forth between her and other WWW workers.

He (catching a snatch of McLaggen's rant about how various pie shoppes had temporarily shuttered up due to boycotts) turned more attention to the messages on the mirror. He found that he'd been scrolling through Fawcett's exchange with Angelina. They'd been closer friends than he'd first realised and, what with how his sister-in-law had increasingly glanced at him while biting her lip (and stomping on George's foot when he opened his mouth) she was anxious to get information about the case. He wished he could help her. But honestly, he was thankful she restrained from asking. Because he could only give her vague comments about it being an ongoing investigation. It was better to give that excuse than admit to her that he'd be shocked if they found Fawcett alive.

A day before the kidnapping, Angelina and Fawcett had written each other about a recipe for blueberry pancakes and about how best to coax pygmy puffs into rioting en masse. The messages were interspersed, enough that Fawcett seemed to be suggesting that cayenne pepper with a hint of cardamon worked on both counts. Ron would've thought it was referring to just the pancakes, but Angelina's responding, 'thanks! that brightened them right up', made him wonder. As did both women's typed cries of, 'VIVA LA BREAKFAST!'

Naturally, the most recent messages were from Angelina, asking if Fawcett was okay. Ron clicked off the mirror, unsettled and feeling like he was invading their privacy.

He wasn't sure why he kept coming back to Fawcett. Sure, there was the obvious reason. She'd become the public face for this crime spree: with each new kidnapping, the papers' reminded their readers that this had all started with an attack on an innocent, lovely girl. The photo of her at graduation had gained a life of its own.

Or maybe Ron's interest lay in the connection to his own family. Not only was Fawcett friends with Angelina and employed at WWW, but she reminded him so much of the twins. But it was more than any of that. Fawcett's case had begun this spree of near unsolvable crimes—a constant, horrid thorn in Ron's side. It had been his first case where, no matter how many hours he put into it and how many leads he followed, he was forever stuck at square one.

Other Aurors talked about how they had one case, that one miserable cold case, which had never met a conclusion. Some retired Aurors still came in from time to time, looking without hope at a double homicide from five years ago. Or a home invasion and massacre from a decade ago. Or a possible but suspicious suicide from twenty years back. They hadn't personally known the victims, but the unsolved crime kept them up at nights.

Ron had a nasty suspicion this had already turned into his. That he'd spend years going over Fawcett's mirror, rescanning the Pensieve memories, answering owls from her exhausted family, waving off the insidious press with each new disappearance, banging his head over why the kidnappers hadn't used the Skiving Snackbox after Roger Davies, theorising over and over (and over and over again, en tedium) about what awful thing had made Fawcett convulse…

Ron pushed his chair back with a _Bang!_ , startling McLaggen and halting his rant about how Lisa was so incompetent that she couldn't even identify the murdered male Veela.

"Don't mess with my office," Ron said gruffly, dropping the mirror and whisking up the pile of cold case folders. The recording charm was turned off with a snap and, without looking back, he strode out of the room. He tried not to think about what he was doing because, if he paused, he'd only further put off seeing Harry about the pattern he'd spotted. Which was a horrible idea.

Ron was so distracted he didn't take notice of Taylor's shout and frantic wave off. If he had, he would have dismissed it as Harry taking his lunch in his office and wanting some privacy. So he barged into the office without concern.

Only once the door was open did he remember why he usually knocked.

" _Christ!_ " Ron clapped a hand in front of his eyes, letting the office door swing shut behind him. His macabre thoughts were promptly replaced by the horrifying sight in front of him. "On the _desk?_ "

"Hello to you too," Ginny grumbled. Ron—eyes firmly shut—heard Harry cursing and clothes rustling. "Why are you always the one interrupting us?"

"I've been asking myself that for years!" Ron moved the case folders in front of his eyes as well (as one could never be too careful). The only bright side of this, he mused, was that it'd thoroughly distracted him from the Fawcett case. "As you've already scarred me, how about you put on your clothes _and leave_? Y'know, so you can stop disrupting important Auror business?"

"We're both dressed, you berk! It was only a bit of kissing," Ginny snarled, rustling papers off the desk as she made sounds of climbing down to the floor. "We're both on our lunch break, nothing wrong with a…why are you even covering your eyes?"

"Because I walked in on my _sister_ on top of my _best friend_! DOING UNSPEAKABLE THINGS TO EACH OTHER!"

"WE WERE KISSING! Besides, we're kind of married. Did you somehow miss that?" Ginny huffed.

"You were doing more than snogging! Trying for baby number four? Which is disgusting, by the way."

"I'm still pregnant with my third child! Do you have any idea how human anatomy works? Wait. DID YOU JUST CALL MY KIDS DISGUSTING?!"

"What? No, they're adorable. It's their sex obsessed parents I have a problem with! WHY CAN'T YOU TWO GET A ROOM?"

"WE HAD A ROOM! YOU BARGED IN! RUDE ENOUGH TO INTERRUPT WHAT MIGHT'VE BEEN HARRY'S LUNCH, BUT YOU HAVE THE NERVE TO _BLAME US_?"

"His LUNCH? WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU TWO—"

" _Could you both stop?_ " Harry cut through the siblings' shouting. "Ron, open your eyes. This is ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous is how we can't get any privacy!" Ginny stormed, glaring at her brother as he reluctantly moved the folders away to look at the—thankfully dressed—couple. "If it isn't the paparazzi, it's my tactless brothers."

"To be fair," Harry scratched the back of his neck, not nearly as annoyed as his wife. Ron had the enormously unwelcome thought that this was due to the same reason his shirt was unevenly buttoned and his hair was even messier than usual, "we are in my office. Isn't too surprising someone walked in."

"Why didn't Taylor stop you!" Ginny hissed at Ron.

"Think she tried," Ron recalled that the secretary had been waving frantically at him. Oops. "Odd she didn't stop me. Maybe she wasn't trying that hard? Huh, because I finally got her those triple chocolate biscuits? That must be it. Hey, I'm back on her good list!"

"Good for you," Ginny said drily. Giving Harry a last kiss and ignoring Ron's mock gagging, she walked towards the door. "Be home for dinner, you got that? I don't care what catastrophe happens, you need a break."

"Yeah yeah," Harry said. "Don't kill your editor in the meantime, alright? I'm not covering up a murder for you."

"Hah, sure you wouldn't. Bye love," Ginny said with a laugh. Her steely look returned as she gave a parting glare Ron. "Bye idiot brother! Learn to freaking knock."

She slammed the door behind her.

Ron glanced after Ginny, made the conscious decision to ignore what'd happened, and sought to erase the image from his mind. He gave his sheepish best friend a silent stare.

"Shut it," Harry grumbled, making his way back over to the chair. "Is this about a case? Or are you—"

"It's about the Sweenies," it said a lot about the situation's graveness that Ron jumped to the point. He dropped the case folders on the desk and pulled up a chair.

"Please stop calling them that," Harry said with a note of pleading, his good mood from before evaporating. "The press is bad enough, but half the office won't stop quoting the blasted musical."

"Yeah, we're all tired of Dmitri's tone-deaf singing. But the name's catchy." Ron winced. "I swear, if he gets 'The Worst Pies In London' stuck in my head one more bloody time…"

"What about the disappearances?" Harry pulled the folders to him, uncaring that a mass of unorganised papers was pushed away. If questioned, he'd certainly wave the state of his desk off as being 'organised chaos', and that he knew precisely where everything was. "Hasn't been a new name today…frick. Please, please tell me there isn't another one?"

"No new ones, sort of." Ron leaned forward seriously. "Listen, this is even more insane than we thought. Remember me thinking that, huh, it sure was lucky we caught that people were vanishing without a trace? Then how we theorised, hold up, what if we _weren't_ always lucky and missed earlier cases?"

"So you were looking at cold cases before Fawcett that fit the signature. Yeah. What, going back three years?" Harry said with a weary tone, knowing full well where this was leading. He glanced down at the files he had yet to open, fingers tapping the binding. "How bad is it?"

"Bad." Ron shrugged helplessly. "Potentially very bad. Though, y'know, to be clear? Since I was looking for any missing cases _without_ any massive clues, few to none of these might actually be the Sweenies."

"Worst-case?"

"Another fifty people." Ron ripped off the plaster.

He heaved a slow sigh. "Okay. What's the most likely number?"

Ron hesitated. "A few, a few dozen. At least."

Harry froze, having been about to open a folder. " _In addition_ to our dozen?"

"Yeah," Ron said glumly. "Educated guess, mind you. Not like I'm going off of much. But…yeah, this is a lot worse than we'd thought. When I said it's 'potentially very bad'? I meant more of, 'sweet Merlin, it's like another Dark Lord'. Which, uh, don't tell the press that last bit. Best not add to the hysteria."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, expression turning from disbelieving and panicked to glimmering determination. "I'm guessing these were missed because they never came to the Aurors?"

Ron nodded. "Mainly Hit-Wizard cases. These missing people aren't like 'our' group—y'know, middle class to wealthy, with almost all being low-risk targets. This new first group are mainly disenfranchised people. Some were homeless or prostitutes. The sort of people who continuously moved, changing addresses or giving different names. What I said, about how maybe none of them were kidnapped by these guys? It works the other way too. It's possible the Sweenies grabbed even more people, but no one ever reported them missing." He gave a low breath. "Still, the other names on the list…"

"What?"

Ron was even more reluctant to say this part. "Orphans. Well, children in orphanages or foster homes. A lot had histories of getting into trouble, so most of their disappearances were chalked up to them running away. But, these cases, they fit the Sweenies' 'signature': taking someone without leaving any real clues behind. I was always suspicious of Fawcett being the first victim, seeing as that crime was too professional. Well, these? They stretch back another year, were slightly more sloppy, and were all targets who would be far easier to capture."

Harry took a hollow breath. "How sloppy?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Ron said. "CCTV caught shadows of the people—so yeah, definitely a group—but it's all too faint to—"

 _Knock knock_.

Harry glanced at the door. Giving a pointed look at Ron he gestured at it. "See? That's how normal people enter a room."

Ron huffed, inwardly glad for the distraction from the uncertain spree. "I had crucial evidence for ongoing kidnappings. Not my fault you were eating your—"

"We were just kissing!" Harry cut in, exasperation clear. "But, yeah, even if I was having lunch it's basic politeness to knock. So long as it's not an emergency, obviously."

"Dozens of people missing is a—"

"A time-sensitive emergency! Like, say, you finally killing McLaggen."

"Thanks for reminding me. When the hell are you getting rid of—"

 _Knock knock_.

The two men stopped, sending embarrassed glances at the door. Harry cleared his throat and raised his voice. " _Sorry, come in! Door's unlocked._ "

Lisa Turpin walked in without further ado. She glanced at the men but, clearly disregarding their odd fidgeting, figured they must have been in a meeting. "This a good time?"

Harry sent a questioning look at Ron. Ron shrugged, not having much else to say. "Think we were about done, unfortunately. I'll let you two—"

"No, wait," Lisa stalled Ron as he stood up. "Need to talk to you both."

Harry sat back, gesturing at another seat as he did. "About King's Cross? Good work on organising the clean-up, by the way. Any leads on the death?"

Lisa seemed a bit green, sitting down with a sigh as Ron followed. "Thanks. But no, not really. Cause of death is the same potion as all the others. The experts have extracted a few ingredients from it, but it's still a mystery. The Veela is also a John Doe. I've run him through the international registry, but zip. Nada. No reports of missing Veela, either. Though this one's butchering was…" she trailed off, face a decided green. "For the record, I hate this case and the Rippers all deserve slow and painful deaths."

"No disagreement here," Harry said, not surprised (but not happy) at the lack of progress. "Not to be rude, but did you want to ask about a lead or—please, please tell me you have a bloody lead."

Lisa hesitated, nibbling her lip. "Not a lead, per se. A half-baked theory? Have you thought about…look, I know it's two different signatures, two different areas, and two different victim pools. But don't you think it's bizarre that Britain's being hit by two serious, high-profile crime sprees at the same time?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, both having considered this.

"That the Rippers and Sweenies are somehow connected?" Harry said. "Definitely possible. With that being said, it is London they're both focussed on. It's not like this city's unfamiliar with violent crime, so having two unrelated but simultaneous crime sprees isn't that crazy. Not nice, mind you, and I'll give you that it's massively rare that neither of them are leaving any significant clues."

"Also, sorry, but their motives are really different." Ron sent an apologetic glance at Lisa. "The Rippers might be psychopathic poachers, but they're killing rather than kidnapping. With your spree, a monetary motive would make sense—what with selling the butchered body parts on the black market. But the Sweenies? Human trafficking, maybe, but their possible motive's more iffy."

Lisa sat back with a sigh. "Hey, I agree. Just thought I'd mention the possibility. Not sure if I'd be relieved or horrified if they were connected, honestly. But come on, you'll give me that this entire thing is insane."

"Oh, absolutely," Harry said tiredly. He pursed his mouth, sending them both a serious glance. "Shouldn't dismiss a connection, it's just unlikely. But, all of this aside, I've been meaning to talk to you two. I don't have to tell you that your investigations are being heavily covered by the press. I'm sure you've been bothered by the—"

" _Here we go again_." Ron rolled his eyes, wholly unsurprised. Harry sent him a look before continuing.

"— _bothered_ by having your names plastered in the papers. Everyone who matters knows you're doing everything you can and realise there's only so much that's possible in cases with nearly zero leads. But Merlin knows I get how horrid the 'court of public opinion' can be." Harry leaned forward, shooting even Ron's incredulous look down. "So if you want someone else to take the lead on either of these sprees, I completely understand. Hell, if you're just sick of the lack of progress, let me know. I'd hate if either of you felt like you were stuck with this."

It was Ron's and Lisa's turn to exchange a glance, one which was incredulous and reluctantly fond of their idiot boss.

"Nah, I'm good." Ron stretched. "Sick of the lack of leads, but I want to see this damned thing through. Besides, not like I'm bored: I've been working on plenty of other cases."

"Exactly." Lisa nodded in agreement. "Can't say I'm fond of reading rumours about how I'm about to be fired, but I want to bring the Rippers in."

Harry stared at them a moment, the smallest smile lighting his face. "That simplifies things. Still, let me know if you change your mind." He paused, backtracking. "Also, obviously, no one's getting fired. You're both doing exemplary jobs—no matter how much you annoy me." This was wholly directed at the unremorseful Weasley. "Can't speak for anyone else, I admit, but if it comes down to it? I'll happily take the blame for the lack of progress."

"Moron." Ron rolled his eyes.

"I know, seriously," Lisa spoke to Ron, both ignoring their blinking boss. "How did someone this thick become Head Auror?"

"Heard he offed some Dark Lord," Ron said conspiratorially, not looking at Harry's arching expression. "Shame how that's mistaken for intelligence. Gosh, I even heard he used a disarming charm on the bloke! You believe that?"

Lisa shook her head. "Poor thing likely doesn't even have an anti-summoning charm on his glasses. With one swish and flick I could—"

"Okay, okay! I get it." Harry shook his head at his grinning friends. "For the record, I thought that was nice of me to offer."

"Oh, it was. But you're too noble by half." Lisa dismissed. "You're a brilliant Head, so shush and stop listening to the press. Reporters are full of it."

"Eh," Ron shrugged, a disgusted look crossing his face. "He doesn't mind what one reporter's full o—"

"Really?" Harry cut in. "We were close to having a nice moment there, so you make a comment about Ginny?"

"Your fault. Blasted 'lunch breaks'," Ron said, miffed. Lisa eyed the two of them before deciding she didn't care and didn't want to know.

* * *

The rest of the day was busy. Ron barely had time to snatch lunch himself as he had to set some teams up with looking into the 'new' cold cases, give HR the recording of McLaggen being a sexist pig, send McLaggen to get lectured by HR, and give Hermione the recording so she could plot as well. Then he picked up Rosie from morning daycare and dropped her off at Cambridge with his delighted parents-in-law, only just managing to escape after unwisely mentioning that his quick breakfast and lunch had mainly consisted of sugar.

In arriving back at the Ministry, he wasn't as lucky at avoiding Harry—who'd gotten wind of how McLaggen was locked in with the shrieking HR, how ten Aurors had been monopolised into looking into the cold cases, and how Hermione was planning how to murder McLaggen. Harry (well aware of who was at fault), told him that because of the sudden lack of available personnel, Ron needed to go to the Atrium to guide Fudge and his handlers to the Ministerial debate in Courtroom Five.

Ron, miffed, insisted that this was payback for interrupting Harry and Ginny earlier. Ron was then smugly informed that he'd just volunteered himself into not only guiding Fudge to the debate, but to sit in and guard the Wizengamot meeting itself. The Senior Auror again protested. Rather vocally. Which was when he was shoved into a broom closet by his irate friend and told to shut up, deal with it, and stop adding to the chaos. Ron—Harry's fist scrunching up his collar—glibly replied that Golden Boy didn't need any help creating chaos.

Which was when Harry's patience crumbled and he snapped that if Ron was going to be a child, then he was just going to have to babysit him. So the two grumpy and peeved men found themselves making their way to the Ministry Atrium to guard a pompous politician.

There wasn't meant to be anything too hostile in the Wizengamot that day. A regular Minister Questions would normally, at most, get a few bylines for the tabloids (and then only if the Minister or opposition fumbled). Unfortunately, this wasn't a regular Minister Questions. With Shacklebolt and Fudge in the same room with the upcoming elections and crime catastrophes in the headlines, most of the Wizengamot members (plus gaggles of reporters and quite a few guarding Aurors) had decided to make an appearance. More than a few of them had placed bets on who'd come out victorious in the day's debates.

The Head Auror, at first, had assigned most Aurors to the perimeters of the chamber while he stood by the wall behind the Minister. But by the third time Shacklebolt roped him into the debate, he'd broken his cool and signalled for Dmitri to trade with him.

" _Bloody wankers,_ " Harry gritted out, sliding next to Ron as the newest argument erupted in the chamber. Apparently, his anger at Shacklebolt was greater than his suspicions towards his friend (as he'd caved on his threat to 'babysit' the man before they'd exited the lift down to the courtroom—proving, once again, that when determined Ron truly could be that annoying). "Can't the bloke get a hint? I'm not supporting his damned policies! Isn't that obvious?"

Ron and Harry stood at the bottom of the raised risers that circled the wide chamber. The seats above were filled with reporters, camera flashes, and murmuring politicians in ornate robes. Other Aurors were throughout the room and stationed at the wide doors. Apart from the last group, everyone's attention was on the two roaring Ministry candidates standing on the pedestal in the centre of the room. The 'debate' had long since dissolved into shouted insults. It was a wonder that wands had yet to be drawn.

* * *

 _["Minister, what is your take on the recent riots in London?" A mousy member of the Wizengamot voiced._

 _"The public speaking their mind!" Fudge spouted out before Shacklebolt could. "Freedom of speech, I might say. A right good show!"_

 _"Did I miss your election to Minister?" Shacklebolt gritted out, temper tightly in check. "If so, forgive me. If not, the question was clearly for me."_

 _"Details, details," Fudge waved away, apparently not aware of how close the Minister was to hexing him—witnesses be damned.]_

* * *

"Thank your stars it isn't," Ron pointed out, watching as two members started screaming in each others' faces. He was irritated at being dragged to this debate, but was amused that it'd already irritated Harry enough that he'd willingly joined him. "Or do you want Fudge thinking you're on his side?"

"Don't joke about that." Harry only reluctantly watched the shouting candidates. The Wizengamot members, for their part, were yelling cheers at the mess rather than trying to subdue the rowdiness. Only a few were trying to calm the situation. "Can you think of two worse options for Minister?"

"Just because you're pissed at Shacklebolt for the memorial—"

"For making a _mockery_ of it," Harry retorted, "and for pulling me into the mess. He's still asking me to speak at the Halloween Gala, can you believe that?"

"Great, whatever. You're actually saying you'd vote for Fudge?"

* * *

 _["Still running this great nation like we're at war!" Fudge howled, his pudgy face growing pudgier as his bowler hat tipped in outrage. An aide who attempted to fix it was angrily waved away. "What we need is a Ministry focused on building our floundering economy. Rebuilding, more like! To what we had in the 1990s. I request the public not forget which Minister made that possible!"]_

* * *

"That pillock?" Harry snorted. "I'll vote for Fudge when flobberworms fly. No, I'll do a write-in or something. Maybe abstain out of protest."

"Don't tell Hermione that last bit. She'll get fussed about the whole, 'if you don't vote you have no right to complain' thing."

"Fine! I'll write in _her_ name," Harry answered, then paused thoughtfully. "Huh, that's not a bad idea. Ought to make a point of it. Tell some reporters or the like."

Ron turned from surveying the room to eyeing his friend. "Oh yeah, she'd take that well. How about you run for the position yourself?"

Harry gave an involuntary shudder.

"That bad?" Ron followed Harry's nod to the screaming Minister candidates. He conceded the unsaid point. "Fair enough. Still, thought you were all about embracing bureaucracy."

* * *

 _["Is it too much to ask for a civilised debate?" Shacklebolt rubbed his eyes. "Cornelius, stop this circus. Can we agree that we're both qualified for the job and stop with the mud racketeering?"_

 _"Thank you, Kingsley." Fudge smiled neatly. "I quite agree. Moreover, I'm pleased to accept your view that I would make an excellent Minister."_

 _"Why you little—"]_

* * *

Harry gave a weary sigh, one that bespoke his reluctance to continue this argument. "I accepted the promotion, get over it. I'm adult enough to work through the nonsense parts of the job. It's not like I'm a fan of bureaucracy, politics, or election nonsense! Have we met?"

"Says the man who keeps holding press conferences to ridicule Shacklebolt," said Ron.

Harry sent him a steely look. "How d'you wager that? Protesting the sorry excuse of a memorial doesn't mean I'm ridiculing him."

"Come off it, you know exactly what you're doing," Ron rolled his eyes. "It's like your stupid sarcasm; you enjoy ripping people to shreds. You make reporters cry with your snarkiness! Like, proper tears. I've felt genuinely sorry for a few of them."

Harry turned to look at him. "…did you say 'snarkiness'?"

"Means snarky."

"I know what it means!"

Ron grinned. "Also, not protesting how many reporters you've driven to tears? You're proud of it, aren't you. Keeping a record?"

Harry was a hint indignant. "I'm not proud of it!"

"Yeah right. After you verbally demolished that cameraman last week for sneaking a photo of Jamie?"

"The git had a camera in his face!" Harry protested. "It was completely inappropriate and—"

"You reduced the bloke to a crying sob by saying he'd never get a grapple back on, 'the poor, sorry excuse that his life had become', and that he was fooling himself in thinking his wife would ever take him back." Ron halted, rather impressed. "Again, what?"

Harry scratched his head, embarrassed but not apologetic. "It was a guess? Not a hard one, mind you, considering the twat hadn't had a shower in ages but had a spotless wedding ring. Guilt, I bet. Probably cheated, and you know his wife was the victim, seeing as how he was taking it out on my kids. Or any kids! Scumbag."

* * *

 _["Might I add that some of us don't swish our coattails about and go running to the hero of the moment," Fudge said. His aide was nodding along beside him. "We pull ourselves up and stand strong!"_

 _Shacklebolt sent him a sour look. "To be clear, you're on about Potter? If you haven't noticed, we're disagreeing at the moment! He's hardly supporting my campaign. How exactly am I running to him?"_

 _"Pish posh." Fudge waved this away. "You've been covering up for Potter with that nasty pie business. Heavens, there was no cannibalism when I was Minister!"_

 _"What pies? The Sweeney kidnappings?" Shacklebolt said in disbelief. "Firstly, that was a horrid rumour the press irresponsibly ran with. Secondly, while Head Auror Potter and I disagree on certain topics, he and the MLE have my full support on how they—"_

 _"They're making a mockery of it! If I was Minister, I wouldn't so casually toss aside the public's worry that they're about to be baked into pies!"_

 _"THERE ARE NO PIES."]_

* * *

"Uh huh," Ron wondered how it'd taken Harry so long to figure out he'd been behind the pranks. It still startled him how trusting and stupid his otherwise smart friend could be. "So instead of hexing him, you mercilessly announced how he failed at life. Alright, no joke: is it actually impossible for you to be normal? Or to not nefariously plot to take down Ministers and reporters?"

Harry gave him an impatient glance. "Shacklebolt's being a git. As for the reporters, they keep shoving cameras at my kids and saying Ginny and I are divorcing! So excuse me for having no problem with making some paparazzi cry," he frowned, put-out. "It's a waste, anyway. The prats don't even get most of my insults. If I say someone's a Chizpurfle, that's not a good thing! I don't care how cute it sounds! It's a crab parasite with fangs. Better yet, who takes being called a hairy Quintaped a compliment? Or forget about magical creatures. Can you believe Ripley thanked me for saying he was a vainglorious rooster with god delusions? I obviously meant he was an arrogant coc…uh, Ron? Why're you staring at me?"

"Remembering why you never went into politics," Ron shook his head fondly, imagining the chaos that would ensue if Harry ever ran for anything. He also pondered that he wasn't the only one who had clearly spent far too much time in Hermione's vicinity, "and why you stopped interviews after that fiasco with _Witch Weekly_."

"Sure, like it's my fault they took the remark seriously," Harry grumbled at the old memory. "I was obviously making fun of their idiotic question about if Dumbledore had faked his death. I didn't mean to create mass panic by saying he'd become an inferi! Of all the stupid, bloody…"

"Face it, mate. People don't get sarcasm. Or stupid animal references," Ron turned his attention back to the Wizengamot. "Go for puns."

* * *

 _[Shacklebolt huffed, losing his patience. "Besides, if you were Minister? You'd have hung Potter out to dry, like you did him and Dumbledore in '95! I refuse to be insulted for not making someone a scapegoat!"_

 _"Oh, ancient history. NOT LIKE THESE HUMAN PIES!"_

 _"ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT?"_

 _"APPARENTLY YOU—"]_

* * *

There was a small beat of silence. Harry's and Ron's conversation as well as the candidates' shouted argument came to a screeching halt.

Ron blinked at the scene. He drew his wand on instinct, but was more taken aback than ready to curse. After all, it's not everyday that Cornelius Fudge disappeared right in front of the stunned Wizengamot.

Harry was already swearing. " _So sick of this nonsense,_ " he muttered while striding forward, cutting through the stunned members of the Wizengamot without a glance. While muttering a spell to secure all doors, he mumbled furiously into his two-way mirror, giving instructions to the assorted Aurors. In this short seconds, pandemonium had erupted in the chamber.

Harry, having gotten to the podium (but not touching it), pointed his wand at his throat. " _Sonorus_. WOULD YOU ALL SHUT UP!"

The hysterical screams softened a touch, though there were still unintelligible shouts and questions amidst bright camera flashes.

"THANK YOU. NOW STAY IN YOUR BLOODY SEATS, KEEP CALM, DON'T LEAVE, AND LET US DO OUR JOBS! _QUIETUS_ ," Harry's voice returned to its normal volume. He ignored the close-to-mutining crowd and turned his attention to the podium to continue flinging spells at it. Five other Aurors had already all but tackled Shacklebolt, getting him (and the main Wizengamot members) to a 'safe' corner. By this point, Ron had long since shaken off his shock and joined him at the centre. Though, instead of looking at the podium, the Senior Auror's attention was on the chaotic scene around him.

"Effing nothing. Again," Harry muttered, frustration clear in his tone. He stopped the spells with a growl. "No magical signature, no trace of apparation or portkey, nothing!"

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Ron turned to the podium with a grimace. He noted another Auror had grabbed Fudge's shaking assistant and was already questioning him. "Look at that bloke, even he didn't see a thing."

Harry, following Ron's gaze to the stricken assistant, heaved another sigh. "There'll be dozens of taped videos and, blimey, hundreds of potential Pensieve memories. So why am I sensing those will reveal nothing?"

"Because Fudge just disappeared into thin air." Ron kept surveying the room, keeping his wand out. "I'm not sure if the criminals are mental or brilliant."

"That we, again, have no clues? I'd go with brilliant. They're laughing at us," Harry gritted out, saying more commands into his communicator to ensure no one could leave or enter the chamber, for a checkpoint to be made at all exits of the Ministry, and for a systematic check to be done for polyjuice and the imperius charm on all witnesses.

"I'm betting invisibility cloak," Ron muttered to him over the tension that had rapidly filled the room. "Polyjuice's too recognisable. A cloak—hold up. _Accio invisibility cloak!_ "

No cloak came rushing at them.

"Yeah, so an invisibility cloak under an anti-summoning charm," Ron continued without pause. Though Harry was still regaling orders and talking to Hermione (who was outside of the chamber and focusing on things there), he was listening. "This isn't a secure meeting, so it'd be easy to sneak in under that. It'd be possible for them to drape Fudge under it and 'disappear' quickly enough. Which means they're still in the chamber."

"The doors weren't immediately locked," Harry answered back, his mouth pinched.

"Don't be stupid, you locked them within seconds of Fudge vanishing," Ron dismissed, still on alert. "They're locked in with us. So, two outcomes. One: they have a plan to escape undetected. Two? They take more hostages and go out wands blazing."

"They wouldn't do the second." Harry gave up on the podium for the moment and, like Ron, surveyed the chamber as the other Aurors slowly regained order. "This is the Sweeney's signature, no doubt, and they've never hinted at suicide by Auror. If we had them cornered, maybe, but they have the upper hand here. They must have a way to escape."

"Through the spell-proof walls? This place was built to be impenetrable." Ron frowned, thoughts whirling. "They're planning on sneaking out. Maybe we're looking for a metamorphmagus. I know they're rare, but they're undetectable."

"All the reporters have press passes, we can check them and the Wizengamot," Harry argued. "The Sweenies aren't idiots, they know we have a list. If they had someone under the imperius or polyjuice they'd know that person would never escape the chamber. Even if they managed to get a metamorphmagus, how're they planning on smuggling Fudge out? We'd catch any transfigurations on him. Leaving a body isn't their signature!"

"Unless we're talking about a copycat."

There was a pause, both men tensely watching the somewhat settling chaos.

"The door was unlocked for a few seconds," Harry mumbled to himself.

Ron groaned. "Not that again. If you're blaming yourself or—"

"Shut up! I'm thinking." He put a hand to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "Why does this seem familiar? Someone wants to escape from a locked room, deemed impossible…oh. Oh hell." His hand snapped back to his communicator, whipping it to his mouth in a panic. "Hermione! Check the Department of Mysteries and their time turners. Yes, yes, I know they don't like us—no, I don't want to use one! I want to see if any are missing. Yeah, yeah, exactly like Sirius, that's what I'm afraid of. Thanks. Let me know."

Ron eyed him as he tiredly cut off the message. "Should I ask?"

"Remember when Hermione and I rescued Sirius back at Hogwarts? Her time turner made it so the locked room and the dementor were irrelevant," Harry said. "The Wizengamot door wasn't only unlocked for a few seconds: it's been unlocked all day."

"Okay…all of that's if the kidnappers stole a time turner. I mean, blimey, it's hard enough for us to get a hold of one."

"Because we do it legally!" Harry gritted out before catching his temper and sighing. "Look, let's see what Hermione says. Hopefully they're still in the chamber."

* * *

"'The Tale of the Three Brothers' is a story," said Hermione firmly. "A story about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the Invisibility Cloak, we'd have everything we need already!"

— _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

 **A/N:** I love thinking that the cynically sarcastic teenager!Harry only got more brutal over time. If the seven books proved anything, it's that Boy Wonder's more likely to verbally demolish someone ("There's no need to call me 'sir', Professor") then toss out a hex. The latter's more his wife's thing. Also, the man's Head Auror! Don't tell me he can't do a bit of Sherlockian deductive reasoning.

Though, yes, Harry's a bit sick of all this nonsense.


	10. A Spider's Web

"Fudge, fiddling with his bowler, waited for Hagrid to go ahead of him, but Hagrid stood his ground, took a deep breath and said carefully, 'If anyone wanted ter find out some _stuff_ , all they'd have ter do would be ter follow the _spiders_. That'd lead 'em right! That's all I'm sayin'.'"

— _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_

* * *

Cornelius Fudge was gone with not so much as a _Poof!_ , a horde of people were at ground zero, and many of these same reporters were raising hell on earth to get out of the blocked off courtroom. The trapped Wizengamot members were marginally quieter, due to fears that they would vanish next.

All in all, it was a restless night for the exhausted MLE. By the end of it Ron would be grateful to never see another peeved reporter in his life (and they, likewise, him), Harry had snapped and hexed near a dozen people trying to break down the door, and Lisa literally jumped Kingsley Shacklebolt to keep him from leaving his security detail. The only reason Hermione hadn't similarly gone off the deep end was that she'd released her frustration on the poor Unspeakables who'd been sent to give her some bad news.

So, it was a nightmare. In total it was rather more 'piles of paperwork' than 'interrogating the trapped people', though neither wielded any results. It was only the next morning when most had been allowed out of the Ministry, and even more hours before the particularly suspicious or hysterically bedraggled Wizengamot members and reporters could stumble into floos. The only shining note was that their blasting headlines about Fudge took away most of the attention from Hermione verbally (or otherwise) demolishing a group of Unspeakables in the Atrium.

The fate of the MLE personnel was far worse. It was all hands on deck as Aurors and Hit-Wizards ran between increased security and frantic investigation. The collected memories were poured over, the chamber and pedestal were tested for every enchantment known to wizarding kind, and more than a few loads of caffeine and energy potions were carted over from St. Mungo's.

Yet, to no avail. No one had tested positive for polyjuice or the imperius and no portkeys had been activated within the chamber. Apparation of any sort wasn't possible. The memories also revealed nothing new—apart from two witches from competing newspapers snogging in the back of the room, the Supreme Mugwump's shriek and jump onto the unamused opposition leader after stepping on a flobberworm, and Aurors Quirke's and Su's whispers about the Head Auror's arse.

The last two women were flushed when that particular memory was archived, but Harry (after giving them an incredulous stare) only snorted before returning to sorting through the Pensieve.

Needless to say, the week was a disaster. Ron was barely home at all, with the Ministry on near lock-down as the MLE scrambled with nonexistent clues. The sniffing reporters weren't helping things, but it was crowds of protestors in the Atrium that were new. As were the conspiracy theories about exactly who was behind Fudge's disappearance. Shacklebolt was currently the biggest suspect, with Harry a near second. A small group of theorists whispered that Hermione must be the one behind it all: there had been many rumours over the years about what heinous things she'd done to Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge. Hermione, for her part, snickered in amusement when this was brought to her attention.

The only semi bright news (or the worst news) came from the Unspeakables that first night, who informed them that not only were no time-turners missing—there _were_ no time-turners. Apparently they'd all been destroyed in the 1990s, and the had been 'saving face' since then. Hence, not allowing the MLE access to the non-existent objects.

Harry hadn't taken this news well. Especially when he was snidely informed that it was actually _his_ break-in to the Department of Mysteries that had destroyed them all.

The MLE didn't exactly talk about the aftermath to that confrontation. They were all trying to repress it, frankly, though it did remind all of them to never (ever _ever_ ) get on the Head Auror's bad side. On an unrelated note? The bets on the inevitable 'Potter-Weasley Smackdown' reached epic heights.

* * *

After this trainwreck, most of the Ministry were looking worse for wear. Getting through the hordes of reporters took it out of most. For Ron—and most of the MLE—they were rather more bedraggled from the crime sprees that refused to elicit any clues.

Thus, Barrister Fay Dunbar was an anomaly. The woman would look right at home in the Tudor court. Oh, she wore modern clothes—compared to most witches, her current assemble of a flowered sundress and light cape was practically muggle. Her Elizabethan air had more to do with the rest of her: brown hair bunched up into tight curls around her ears, parchment pale skin, and pretty features that were as high and sharp as could be. She was, in short, the stereotype of a pureblood. Aristocratic, that is, not inbred.

At this moment, all of her queenly disposition was sweeping into Ron's office and perching nimbly on his desk. This was done without a knock or accompanying noise, so it took a second for the Senior Auror to realise someone else was in the room.

He glanced up from his notes and jerked backward with a start. "Bloody he—"

"Hello," the woman said neatly, calm and composed in the face of Ron's surprise. "Barrister Fay Dunbar. Fay, if you please. Senior Auror Weasley, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"Yeah. Hi." Noticing her hand had been extended towards him he quickly shook it, regaining his balance. "Call me Ron. Err, it's nice to meet you, but why are you—"

"Here? The Selwyn case from last Spring. I'm working on the prosecution and the trial is finishing up," Fay revealed the folder from somewhere (he wasn't entirely sure where, except that the non-existent pocket in her dress was bigger on the inside). Licking her fingers she flipped through the pages. Her legs crossed, right at home as the Auror gawked. "Over the course of the trial, one detail kept nagging me. I wanted to ensure that something wasn't missed at the time of investigation. A Death Eater spotting—pardon? Follow up?"

It took a minute for Ron to unravel her statement. "You mean how someone claimed they saw Lestrange? Course I followed up on it! But it wasn't anything. The ravings of a drug addict that Selwyn latched onto to try and make a plea. Which, jeez, tell me you haven't given him?"

"The drug addict, Simon River, claimed to have seen Rodolphus Lestrange." Fay raised an eyebrow, ignoring his question. "Undesirable Number Three, rumoured to have been a top Death Eater."

"I know who Lestrange is, thanks," Ron said, a touch testily. "Listen, I'd have loved to have gotten a lead on him. But it was nothing."

"I'll be straight with you, _Ron_ ," she said the last with extra emphasis. "With the recent lack of progress on the Sweeney kidnappings, not to mention the Fudge debacle, some have doubts about the Auror Office's effectiveness. I want to ensure that there wasn't an, ahem—"

"I followed up on it," Ron repeated, his patience ebbing. "I take all leads seriously. However, this one ended up being complete nonsense, _which we proved_."

"Mr. River was outside of the potions shop when the report of the robbery came in, and he claimed to have seen a man with a dark mark fleeing the shop. A dark mark!" Fay strode forward, not minding Ron's sighing. "'Nonsense'? Deputy Auror Susan Bones and yourself questioned River under Veritaserum, which he passed."

"Because he thought it was the truth. Thought!" Ron said. "He was doped up on mallowsweet. He could've told us the sky was orange and believed it. We couldn't even get a decent Pensieve memory from him, he was that out of his mind. Besides, we never found out how he could've seen this supposed tattoo."

"If the Death Eater's sleeves were rolled up or torn, it would be perfectly possible," Fay pointed out.

"In the middle of Diagon Alley? Mighty clumsy of Lestrange, considering he's been on the run for years," he said drily, recalling the case's details. "Also, if I'm remembering this right, River couldn't tell us anything about this man except that he was old. Barely an identification."

"Hardly. That and the Mark is enough to identify Lestrange. After all, there are only three known people still at large who have the dark mark." She primly stated. "A woman, a middle-aged man, and thirdly—"

"Rodolphus Lestrange, an older man and potioneer who could've hypothetically used the missing ingredients. _Yes_ , I know. I did work the bloody case," Ron said.

Fay paused. "I need not remind you how dangerous this man is?"

"Since the only guys more wanted than him are terrorists? No, I don't need a reminder," Ron gritted out. "Listen, River didn't see Lestrange. There wasn't a trace of him. It didn't even turn out to be a robbery!"

"Yes, Selwyn, the store owner was embezzling and tried to cover his crime," Fay said, looking through her papers. "The owner claimed that Lestrange was pulling the strings?"

"Selwyn was the ring leader, that's it," he said. "I went over this case a hundred times back when it happened. The bloke was making up a story, just like he always did. First he claimed he'd been burglarised of a bunch of rare potions ingredients. When we called him on faking the robbery to hide his funds, he started claiming he was a small fish and that there was a secret partner. An idiot then blabbed about River's testimony to him, and surprise surprise! Selwyn started claiming Lestrange was behind it. For the ingredients, or blackmailing him about the embezzlement, or who knows what; the story kept changing!"

"The 'idiot blabber'," Fay stated drily, "was your fellow Auror, Cormac McLaggen?"

"Yeah, he's an idiot." Ron stretched. "I'd say go question him, but I don't hate anyone enough to advise that. Thick as a rock, that bloke."

"Do you make a habit of insulting your coworkers?"

"When they deserve it, absolutely. You should hear the dirt I have on the Head." Ron became more serious. "I know you're just being thorough. Fantastic, have at it. I honestly hope I missed something and you find a clue that leads back to Lestrange. But this wasn't my first case, okay? I didn't ignore the lead or brush it off, just like I'm not messing up the Sweeney spree. Like plenty of leads, River ended up being a dead end. All evidence of Lestrange being there was not only circumstantial, but came from unreliable witnesses."

Fay stayed silent for a minute, collecting her thoughts. "We _are_ discussing a potions shop and missing ingredients. Lestrange's experiments focussed on potions. There's a link."

"The missing ingredients?" Ron said. "From what I remember, none of them were dark. They're expensive, sure, but only because they're rare. They aren't useful."

"They can be used in potions!" she argued. "The combination is in calming draughts, animagus reveals, headache relievers, et cetera. Plenty of options!"

"Plenty of healing potions, you mean," Ron said. "The ingredients that were taken are mainly used in _outdated healing potions_. No dark wizard, Lestrange included, would go out of his way for them! I bet you anything Selwyn just destroyed or sent off expensive ingredients at random so he could fake a robbery and blame the mix-matching funds on that."

She frowned, irritation clearly shining through. "If you really think this is a just an embezzlement case—"

"If it looks like a flobberworm and stinks like one," Ron cut in. "The case was already complicated enough. Selwyn faked being robbed to steal funds! You think both of those were just covering up something else? Really?"

Fay sniffed. "Lestrange might have been involved."

Ron let out a slow exhale, not wanting to deal with this. Not with everything else on his plate. After the week he'd had, he just wanted to drag Hermione from the office, pick up Rosie from the babysitter, and have a relaxing night at home. He didn't want to be chatting about Death Eaters and a barrister who thought him an incompetent dunce. Wasn't like he'd ever met the woman. "Hey, constant vigilance? I'm all for it. But listen Dunbar, there's a thing called occam's razor…wait. Dunbar?"

"Yes?"

"No, I mean," Ron had realised why the name was familiar, "Dunbar. You know a Jeremy Dunbar?"

Fay stiffened, caught by surprise. "My cousin."

"Huh." He shook his head, getting back to the point. "So yeah, occam's razor. More times than not, the simplest solution is the—"

"What about Jeremy?"

"Nothing," Ron said honestly. "Really, it's nothing. Just remembered he was a witness to one of the vanishings."

But this made Fay further pucker her lips. "Charlotte Fawcett. Yes, he told me. Odd how there's been no progress on the case."

"For Merlin's sa—oh, screw this." Ron kneaded his forehead. "Fine, you think I'm an idiot. More luck to you. I just don't have the time to deal with this. Why're you even scrounging around for Lestrange?"

"I'm on the prosecu—"

"For Selwyn, yeah, I got that." He frowned, eyeing her suddenly. "Wait, this doesn't make sense. The trial's been on for ages. Why bug me now?"

She sniffed. "Head Auror Potter ordered an inquiry."

"He, he what now?"

"An inquiry. Are you deaf? When I heard I came straight to—hey, hey! Where are you going!"

* * *

Striding down the hall, Ron would reluctantly admit he was being a bit impulsive. It would probably be best to sit on it, go in with a level head, and not confront Harry.

'But an inquiry?' Ron steamed to himself, steps sharp and hurried as he searched for the man in question. 'What's he playing at! We have enough to get on with. But is he—'

He stopped mid-step, brow narrowing. Fay Dunbar came straight to him. Dunbar got his name from somewhere. There was no reason that Harry would bring up Lestrange again…unless it was to further aggravate Ron.

"That freaking prat!" Ron growled to himself, causing a few passersby to give him a wide berth. He hurried on with a quicker step. With this, he was soon rewarded by hearing Harry's voice up ahead.

As he rounded a corner he realised that he might not have chosen the best time to confront Harry. It was a pretty atrocious time, really, as it was never good to have a crowd for these things. Also, there was the slight chance that Harry wasn't actually behind this, so confronting him with he was talking to a crowd of Junior Aurors likely wasn't best.

But Harry was always complaining that the Junior Aurors were terrified of him. So he ought to be _happy_ that they'll get a chance to see the man was human rather than an intimidating legend. Ron nodded, walking the rest of the way and pushing through the crowd. And maybe his temper got the best of him. Maybe it was frowned upon to storm up to the Head Auror and interrupt his lecture to the nervous new recruits.

"You set a _barrister_ on me?" Ron growled, cutting Harry's speech off. The younger man stared at him, along with the suddenly whispering crowd. "Are you completely mental!"

"What're you on about now?" Harry started to say before stopping. "No, actually, I don't care. Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?"

"You put out an inquiry on Lestrange!" Ron wasn't about to be put off.

Harry blinked. "I, what now?"

"The case's been done for ages!" Ron stormed, angry at his idiot friend and tired from this mad week. "There wasn't a sign of Lestrange, you know that! So why was I just being lectured by a holier than thou barrister, convinced that I let a Death Eater walk?"

A look of realisation came over Harry's expression. He let out a weary glare. "Ron, listen I— _Ron!_ It wasn't an inquiry of Lestrange. It's an inquiry on the top list of Undesirables! With the sprees and Fudge, Shacklebolt thought we should take a closer look—"

"Oh, so now you're listening to Shacklebolt?"

"It wasn't him! It—damn it, I was in the middle of a talk!" Harry exclaimed, rubbing his forehead with a wince. "We'll deal with this later. Though Merlin knows I'm sick of this. If it isn't the vanishings, you're running to my wife complaining about your partner—"

"I complained to my _sister_. Which, yeah, let's hash this out right here!" Ron ignored Harry's glare and the Junior Auror's perky 'eavesdropping'. "Fine, you have an excuse for setting a barrister on me? What about McLaggen! Bloody incompetent partner, and you expect me to work a spree of kidnappings with him? You know this is unfair! So I annoyed a few Aurors, what of it? Doesn't mean I have to babysit McLaggen!"

"Yes, it does," Harry retorted, his tone offering no room for argument. "You've given me so much nonsense to deal with, the least you could do is get a nuisance off my plate!" He paused, remembering a crowd of Junior Aurors was listening in. He coughed, backtracking. "Not that training Aurors is a nuisance, far from it. Not what I meant at all. I just mean that, ah—"

"That McLaggen's an utter twat who should've been fired ages ago," Ron nodded in agreement with himself. He noted that most of the surrounding crowd were also nodding along. Even Harry, while still glaring, couldn't protest the statement. "I'm all for training somebody, but not that idiot. If he isn't insulting someone he's causing a panic via pies, of all things. SO! Newbies. I need a new partner since my only decent old one's a passive aggressive git, and my current one's a spoilt, arrogant imbecile. Any takers?"

"No, _no!_ " Harry immediately yelped out. Ron smirked, for not even this yell stopped the crowd from pouncing forward and excitedly waved their hands. The Head Auror had to duck when an a particularly enthusiastic bloke's arm almost collided with his glasses. A quick glare around caused the new recruits to waver, though their hands remained raised. " _No one's getting reassigned!_ I don't give a damn if Ron's a war hero. He's supposed to be learning a lesson! Don't you lot care he's already given two Aurors' nervous breakdowns? Will you—Wilkins, stop jumping! Everyone, _put your hands down!_ "

"See?" Ron crossed his arms, the smirk not leaving his face. He only became more amused at Harry being disgruntled. "They love me. So toss McLaggen to a desk job—it's not as though you actually want him in the field. Then give me a newbie. I'm absolutely fine with a newbie. I can, dunno, mould them and stuff. You lot are mouldable, yeah?"

"Weasley," Harry growled. It didn't help his mood that, though most of the hands had been put down, some of the more petite recruits were still leaping up to make sure Ron had seen them, "play nice with McLaggen and stop complaining. Or bothering me about my job! Or bothering me, period!"

"Weasley? We're doing that again?" Ron retorted. "Fine, Potter. But if you think this is me bothering you, you're in for a rude awakening."

"You bloody…" Harry scowled at the man. He was still distracted in trying to calm down the Junior Aurors. "Look, I'm sorry we aren't partners anymore. I miss it, I do. But I like my new job! Don't look at me like that, even the bureaucracy isn't too horrible. But I'm busy. Even busier, thanks to you lately. So stop thinking I'm out to get you and stop trying to get rid of your partners!"

"Stop assigning me rubbish partners because you're annoyed! I've been with him for months, isn't that enough punishment?"

"Assigning McLaggen to you wasn't a— _gah!_ " Harry was at the end of his nerves. "Fine! So it was a retaliation. You'd gone too damn far!"

"Hah! See newbies? The Man Who Conquered's admitted to doing this out of personal vengeance. Setting McLaggen and a barrister on me."

Harry's eyes only narrowed at the nickname. "I still don't know what barrister you're on about. But I do know that if I was anyone else, literally anyone else, you'd have been fired."

"If my boss was 'literally anyone else', I wouldn't be making a fuss because, oh yeah! I'd like my partner. Who'd be competent and not an idiot like McLaggen!"

The dark-haired man closed his eyes. He took a slow, deep breath, reopening his eyes. "The McLaggen thing will be nothing." While his tone was nonchalant, his manner was so much that of the 'Man Who Conquered' that the Junior Aurors were stepping back cautiously. Ron was actually tempted to join them. "You know why?"

Ron hadn't the faintest. Harry was a number of things, but he'd never been particularly creative when it came to retaliations. He was also pretty certain the other man wasn't going to attack him. That is, he hoped not. He wouldn't do it with so many witnesses, at least. Probably. Maybe?

In a few short strides, Ron found himself face-to-face with his best friend. His best friend who took on Dark Lords and paparazzi every other weekend, and was now smiling darkly at him. Ron's smirk fell a bit. "For the past few months," Harry's voice became quieter, "I've been thinking of all the horrible things I'd love to do to you. Call it a relaxation method. Ginny, unfortunately, vetoed them. But I think she'll give me a pass this one time."

Ron snorted, waving off his slight disconcertion. "Vague threat, check."

"You want something more substantial? How about this," the Head Auror's mouth quirked up. "I know everything about you. I know what pisses you off and what you hate more than anything. If you keep on like this, McLaggen will be the least of your worries."

Ron snorted. "Sure mate. Sure. Very frightening."

Harry paused, looking him up and down. Ron's heart gave a jump as the younger man drew a wand, but it wasn't pointed at him.

" _Expecto patronum_. Lisa, I'm sending Ron over to consult on the latest crime scene." Harry told the silver stag, not taking his eyes off of a thoroughly confused Ron. "Figured you're right, the more people the better. He won't have any details, so if you could catch him up? Let me know of any findings."

Recording finished the Patronus was sent galloping away. Harry's expression was purposefully neutral as he looked at his frowning brother-in-law.

"Ah," Ron began when Harry didn't continue. The Junior Aurors were staring at both of them in rapt attention, "what?"

"Another murdered creature," Harry said evenly, giving away little. "I don't have the case file on me, but Lisa can fill you in. This one was left in the middle of Westminster Abbey. Charming, right? Feel free to apparate from here. No reason to delay, after all."

Ron stared at him, not trusting any of this. But he also didn't know how a consulting gig was a punishment. The murdered magical creatures were far from pleasant, but he'd helped with them before. "You want me to…grab McLaggen?"

"Oh no," the Head Auror said breezily, "don't you want a break from him? Not that I'm reassigning him, understand. But maybe I was taking this too harshly."

"Uh huh," Ron knew Harry was lying through his teeth. He just couldn't figure out why. "Westminster Abbey?"

"All shut down, obliviators have already been in and out. To cut down time an apparation point's been set up in the Abbey." Harry turned away from him and back to the Junior Aurors. "Go on then. I'm trying to give a lesson here, after all. Hope there'll be no more interruptions"

"What creature has—"

"Lisa will explain everything," Harry said dismissively.

Ron kept staring. Giving a disbelieving chuckle, he decided he might as well see what Harry had come up with. He doubted it'd actually bother him. What could be worse than McLaggen?

With that thought in mind, Ron apparated on the spot. He missed Harry's ominously bright smirk as he vanished.

* * *

Seconds later (with a _squelch_ and a _pop!_ ) Ron arrived without incident in Westminster Abbey. Dusting himself off, he waltzed out of the apparation station and headed towards the soft voices in the main room.

Who he first spotted was Lisa: standing between the rows of pews and looking in his direction. Ron strode forward and, as he was looking at Lisa's pale face, he didn't glance at the front of the Abbey. That is, he didn't…until he reached the woman and she soundlessly pointed towards the pew.

Ron, still doubting this could be that bad, turned to look. He stilled, the question to Lisa freezing in his throat.

With a wild cry he clapped a hand over his eyes, drawing in a thick shudder. " _That fuc—_ "

"Not pleasant, eh," Lisa said sympathetically. But Ron was having none of that.

" _I'm killing him!_ " Ron hissed, both hands blocking his view. He tried to wandlessly memory charm himself of what was on the pew. "I'm going to murder him, you hear me? I'd like to see Potter survive another killing curse!"

"Uh, what?" Lisa asked, looking at the man oddly.

"No, what am I saying? I'll torture him! Make it slow and painful," Ron gritted out, keeping his gaze shut tight. "I'll give the _Prophet_ the biggest expose they've ever seen. Oh sure, Potter's a secret Dark Lord! Deranged deviant, absolutely. Did I mention he has a harem? He's taking applications, too. Swings both ways, so any gender can get a great big snog out of him. Just jump him whenever you like!"

"Ron, are you feeling okay?"

"Or hey, how about love potions! Dose him right up! But you know what Potter really likes? People sticking cameras in his face and making up new titles for him, more hyphens the better! He'll say he dislikes it, but we all know he's a lying, backstabbing son of a bi—"

"RON!" Lisa called out, succeeding in cutting him off. "What in heavens are you on about?"

"How to torture and murder Potter." Ron only opened his eyes with extreme reluctance, groaning as he caught another sight of the body. "Wasn't it obvious?"

Lisa stared at him. She took a short glance to the side (where, Ron at last noticed, Kevin was consulting with the other Auror teams), then looked back. "I'm, ah, I'm not saying it's nice you're stuck with McLaggen. But you're being a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"McLaggen? _McLaggen?_ " Ron gave a mad laugh. Taking her shoulders he spun her around, pointing at the dead animal displayed at the front of Westminster Abbey (in case she'd missed it). "McLaggen's only the start!"

Lisa winced at the sight of the corpse, though was still confused. "Sure, this isn't pleasant…"

"IT'S AN ACROMANTULA!" Ron shouted, causing the other Aurors to stare at them. "AN ACROMANTULA WITH ITS EFFING LEGS CUT OFF!"

Her mouth opened then closed. Realisation set in. "You don't like spiders."

"No, I don't like spiders," Ron answered hotly, a moment from apparating out of the place.

"Understandable," Lisa said. "But, Ron? It's not as though Harry was the one who killed it."

"POTTER SENT ME HERE!" he barked. "FOR NO REASON! The twat's getting back at me. Fine, he wants a war? I'LL GIVE HIM A BLOODY WAR!"

* * *

"Ron?" Hermione walked up to him, face curious. "What was your message abo— _ooh!_ "

"Potter." Ron, grabbing her hand, pulled her along the main Auror hallway.

"Potter?" she repeated with a faint giggle, not protesting in being tugged along. "Really?"

"Really," he growled, storming past Taylor's questions and into Harry's office without knocking.

The Head Auror looked up from his paperwork at the intrusion. His puzzled expression turned into a scowl as he spotted his brother-in-law. "Weasley."

Hermione snorted, tugging out of Ron's hand as the men glared at each other. "Last names? Right when I thought you two couldn't get more childish."

"Childish?" Ron spun to her, waving at Harry without looking at him. "HE SET AN ACROMANTULA ON ME!"

Hermione blinked, turning to Harry as he stood up. "Excuse me?"

"Course I didn't," Harry said. He continued without a shred of apology. "It was an acromantula's corpse, get it right Weasley. Didn't even have its legs, so the git shouldn't have been 'bothered by it's crawling'."

"Tell Potter," Ron huffed to his wife (who was looking less amused by the second), "that he's an utter twat who's in over his head!"

"Really?" Harry steamed, also facing Hermione and addressing her rather than Ron. "Well, remind your husband that there's more ugly cases where that one came from!"

"Christ, Potter isn't even good at threats. Tell him Ginny owes me a favour!"

"You're pulling my wife into this? Fine, tell him George still owes me for his bloody shop! Scared, Weasley?"

"You wish, Potter! I grew up with the twins, I'm practically immune. HERMIONE! Tell the git I'm talking to the _Prophet_!"

"Tell him his mum'd be pleased to hear that!"

"Oh, Potter's running to mum." Ron, still 'talking' to his annoyed wife, managed to miss a twitch forming in Hermione's brow. "How brave of Boy Wonder!"

"Eff off!" Harry snapped.

" _Screw you!_ "

" _Screw you too!_ "

"BOTH OF YOU, QUIET!" Hermione shrieked at them, stopping the men as they were reaching for weapons (not wands: Harry had snatched up a golden snitch and Ron was eyeing a rather thick tome). "Sit! NOW!"

The wizards hesitated, breathing raggedly. But with a further glance at the witch's fiery expression, they sat (Harry on his desk, Ron on a chair). Both refused to look at the other. Harry only reluctantly released the snitch, still eyeing Ron's head like a target.

"Ah, love?" Ron said, not liking the look on his wife's face. He forced his thoughts away from chucking any books at his brother-in-law. Because Merlin knew damaging an 'innocent' dust jacket would further infuriate Hermione.

"Don't you 'love' me!" she said, at the end of her rope. "You two, stay quiet. Your idiotic row is effecting cases, so we're having it out now! You're going to apologise, move on, and stop using me as an owl!"

Harry made a face, sending a disdainful scowl at Ron. "Weasley started it."

"Why are you talking!" she stared at him furiously until he shut up. "I'm well aware he started it. Then you escalated it and now I have to finish it!"

"Going to demote him?" Ron cut in over his wife's venomous look. "About time."

"ARE YOU TWO MAD?" Hermione shrieked, causing the wizards to inch away from her anger. "People are vanishing, there's riots—actual, bonafide rioting, the Minister is still mad at all of us for the memorials—which yes, Harry, I'm blaming you for!, I'm freaking pregnant, _and Fudge just vanished under your noses!_ With all of that, you're sticking to your idiotic row?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance, frowned, turned back to Hermione, and nodded vehemently.

"Morons." Hermione breathed, looking up and taking a low inhale. "You're both too stubborn to talk out something that's actually very simple." She returned her glare at both of them, clearly through with all of this. "Harry, Ron was hurt when you accepted the promotion because he loved being partners with you. Ron, Harry wanted the promotion because a desk job is less dangerous and has more reasonable hours. He misses you too. Harry, Ron feels you unfairly assigned him McLaggen, since the pranks he'd been bothering you with are something he'd always done with his siblings. Your retaliation was viewed as being below the belt. Ron, Harry only accepted the position because he wanted more time with his family and unborn child. In short? You have both been acting like children and I'm tired of it! Now, kiss and make up."

The wizards had been deflating through the lecture, but jerked up in appalled surprise at the last statement. Hermione's anger broke into a giggle.

"Your faces!" She put a hand to her mouth to muffle the laugh. Her best friends continued staring at her in horror. "Sorry, sorry. But really, this has been going on too long. Would you apologise already and get on with your lives?"

Ron frowned. Harry crossed his arms. And a lynx Patronus broke through the closed door.

"Potter," Shacklebolt's voice growled, snapping their attention to the silver animal. "Enough is enough! I understand your protest of the memorials. Merlin knows I dislike them myself, but it's for charity you daft man! Whine about bureaucracy all you want, but the few concessions with this media circus can help people. Oh, why am I bothering! Not like you'll listen. But Potter, call off your attack dogs! I know you dislike Ripley for organising this dratted thing, but cornering him in Diagon? Stop these dratted riots!"

The lynx hissed and then turned tail back through the door.

Ron and Hermione both slowly turned to a startled Harry.

"Let me guess," Hermione broke the silence, "you aren't behind this?"

Harry nodded, standing and snatching his wand from the other side of the desk. "No idea what he's on about."

"Not hard to guess, though." Unlike the other two, Ron wasn't getting up. "Merlin knows why, but some people still like you. Riot in Diagon? Have fun breaking it up."

Harry had returned to eyeing Ron contemplatively, but before he could begin using him as target practice Hermione had preemptively grabbed his arms and began struggling to pull him towards the door.

"You aren't hexing Ron!" She growled over Harry's protests, not releasing him as she forced them out of the room. "Ron, I'm not through here! When we get back you're both apologising!"

Hermione tried to close the door after them with her foot, one hand over Harry's shouting mouth and the other scrambling for his wand. All of this with shouts of, "I'm _pregnant_ , Potter! _STOP SQUIRMING!_ "

 _SLAM!_

Ron watched the closed door for another second as he remained sitting sedately in the chair. He was in no hurry anywhere, after all. The 'emergency in Diagon' had nothing to do with him, Dunbar might still be waiting in his office, and Harry surely wouldn't be back to hex him for ages. Most importantly, he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to mess with his brother-in-law's office (Hermione's lecture hadn't exactly made an impact).

"An acromantula," Ron grumbled to himself, surveying Harry's possessions to see what would make the biggest boom. if it instantaneously combusted. "Doesn't matter about the earlier nonsense. Would serve him right if I fed some nonsense rumour to the _Prophet_! What's he playing at? Reacting to harmless pranks with something he…he ah, knows I…despise. Oh." His voice trailed off, a brilliant idea springing to mind. Even more brilliant than setting his 'friend's' office aflame. "Huh."

Forget talking to the press. He was hitting Harry where it properly hurt.

Without hesitation Ron drew out his communication mirror and spoke into it. "Kingsley Shacklebolt."

There was a small pause. Some short seconds later a confused rumble of, "Hello?" came from the other end. The confusion wasn't shocking, as Ron didn't chit-chat to the Minister that often. He was a tinge surprised the call even went through. He'd wondered if he was also 'trapped' in Diagon, but the older man sounded calm enough.

"Have some fantastic news," Ron leaned back in the chair, criss-crossing his ankles against the desk. He absently knocked aside a pile of official looking documents. "I'm assuming you still want Harry at the Halloween memorial. You know, the idiotic gala you're holding for the first war? You can have him. Not only will he show up, he'll give a big speech. A nice surprise to make it so whatever mess's happening in Diagon doesn't repeat, eh?"

There was a longer pause.

"Harry. Harry _Potter?_ " Shacklebolt said disbelievingly, not even asking how Ron knew about the situation in Diagon Alley. "The man who's been shouting at me to cancel this event?"

"Yep, that git." Ron wasn't put off. "No offence Minister, but you've been going about this the wrong way. Harry's selfless, humble, and wary of crowds, so fat chance he'd give a speech about himself. But we've been talking, see, and he's agreed to do a speech…as long as it's about his parents' bravery. In fact, he's all chuffed about it! You know how he is, always likes to honour other people. So you can tell Ripley, the Prophet, and—well, everybody, that you've got Golden Boy on board. Shout it from the rooftops! Could do your approval ratings good. Less talk about how you offed Fudge, for starters."

This halt lasted so long that Ron wasn't sure if the Minister remained on the line. Until, at last, his sighing voice came through.

"…Potter doesn't know about this, does he."

"He hasn't the faintest," Ron inspected his fingers. "Though I'll tell you what. Say you announce to the _Prophet_ that Potter's the keynote speaker and is going to talk about his wonderful parents, yeah? He'll have to reluctantly agree. He's stupid and sensitive like that."

Shacklebolt hummed. "This is an escalation of your pranks on him, isn't it."

"How the—how do you know about that?"

"Everyone knows about it, Weasley," the Minister said, now interested. "You do realise this plot could get us both hexed?" There was a pause. "Oh and, of course, it's morally reprehensible to use his dead parents against him like this."

"Potter was already on the verge of attacking us both," Ron said. "As for it being morally horrible? Sure, absolutely. But after all the trouble he's put you through, what with your rough re-election, wouldn't you like some pay-back? One which you'll also benefit from, seeing as how you'll publicly have the Head Auror and 'Wizarding Saviour' back in your corner. Doesn't that sound nice?" He could tell he had the man's attention, but he needed a final argument. "Or would you prefer people keep talking about you baking Fudge into a pie?"

There was a small halt.

"Do I want to ask," Shacklebolt spoke with a considering rumble, "why exactly you're doing this to your brother-in-law?"

"Nope. Should I expect the announcement in the _Evening Prophet_ or tomorrow's paper?"

"Tomorrow, I believe," the Minister continued before Ron could get off the line. "Remind me to never make an enemy of you, Senior Auror Weasley."

"Happy to help, Minister. Good luck with the election mess."

* * *

"'Follow the spiders,' said Ron, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 'I'll never forgive Hagrid. We're lucky to be alive.'"  
— _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_


	11. A Flock's Feast

**A/N:** After my request for beta readers awhile back, I got replies from many lovely people. They were absolutely wonderful, with some of them even editing this chapter. I had originally planned on letting them know who would be my new editor within a week, then post this update soon afterwards. Unfortunately, real life snuck up on me. Which was how I found out that my time managing skills go to hell when I'm balancing a new (incredible!) boyfriend, a massive revamping at work, and a new volunteering gig. I realised that, even aside from my present, unpardonable rudeness, it would be wholly irresponsible of me to stick someone with an editing job while being uncertain if I myself could keep to any deadlines. Simply, I bit off more than I could chew.

Because of this, though I can't apologise enough, I feel like it would be a mistake to pick a beta reader. This was the last thing I wanted to do, but it's clear it's best to nip this horrific rudeness in the bud rather than drag it on for whichever unfortunate soul became my editor.

Of course, I cannot begin to say how thankful I am to the amazing people who contacted me. So from **cpalmer647** , **Gracie Pearl** , and **sheltie26** (who helped edit this chapter), to **Just William** , **Maiden of the Heavens** , and **thefirstservant** (who showed interest in betaing), to **DarkPhoenix** , **Mists** , and **Gambitized** (who gave me wonderful ideas for the story summary, which I'm still working on), I can only say thank you (and sorry) from the bottom of my heart.

Now, I do have two small attempts to make amends. As an apology and thank you to any of the people I just listed, I have a document where I've charted out the entire plot of this story. If you're interested in seeing this 'spoiler sheet', please let me know. I've already shared this with one or two of you so if either of you would like something extra as my way to apologise, you can contact me with any sort of HP one-shot plot that you'd like me to write up for you.

Finally, for all of you patient readers? As an apology for my insane posting times, I'm going to be putting up an ADDITIONAL chapter within 24 hours of this update. I know this is too little too late, but it's unfortunately the best I can do.

Thank you again.

* * *

"'You can come tonight, I'm going back, I want to show you the mirror.'

'I'd like to see your mom and dad,' Ron said eagerly.

'And I want to see all your family, all the Weasleys, you'll be able to show me your other brothers and everyone.'"

— _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

* * *

It was the silence from the other room that made Ron think something was wrong. He'd been in the kitchen at the time, making fried pickles with peanut butter slathered on top.

"Lots of peanut butter," Hermione had groaned into a pillow shortly before, hand over her mouth. "Until it's overflowing and, and, _oh god…_ "

After helping his pregnant wife to the bathroom (" _Ronald_ , if you touch my hair again I swear I'm going to—uck. Oh, oh Merlin…NO, I don't need your help! I'm barely throwing up, don't be silly."), he'd made a quick escape downstairs. That was, first to Rosie's nursery as she was crying up a storm. Then to the living room, as being in the self-rocking crib always calmed her. And then—finally—to the kitchen (that is, once his daughter had paused in her fussing).

Ron had begun cooking the odd food when Rose's annoyed shrieks again erupted from the other room. He looked doubtfully at the stove, then through the doorway. He'd left his wand by the crib and didn't have enough trust in the muggle stove to leave it even for a moment. Deciding that another minute wouldn't hurt his daughter, he hurriedly finished making breakfast. It wasn't as neat as it could have been, but he doubted Hermione would care. He'd be surprised if she even got it down. He hoped she would, of course, but not many meals were sitting right with her these days…

Ron frowned, looking back at the doorway. It was quiet. Rose had stopped screaming.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Shovelling the pickles on a plate, he turned off the stove and made his way to the fridge. As he was reaching in for the peanut butter, it dawned on his half-asleep brain that something wasn't right.

Rose never stopped crying. Not ever, not of her own accord. She had lungs of steel and took inertia to heart. She was a stubborn little girl and, unless someone rocked her or stuck a bottle or breast in her mouth (whatever the case may be), she'd continue fussing until she lost her voice. Her dad wouldn't be shocked that, if the last happened, she'd have a bout of accidental magic and amplify her shrieks.

Yet, she wasn't screaming. Hermione was surely still 'preoccupied' with morning sickness, Crookshanks had been dead asleep on their bedroom floor, and there was no one else in the house.

Rose wasn't crying.

Ron, closing the fridge, picked up the cooling frying pan. Gripping it he skidded across the kitchen and down the hall. He'd partly closed the living room's door before, so he hid just behind it. Listening closely he realised it wasn't actually silent like he'd first though: there was a low murmuring from within. A very low murmuring voice. A male voice.

Tired, panicked thoughts flew through his head. Should he race for Hermione and her wand? No, the intruder had Rosie! There wasn't any time, he had to attack. Standing against the wall, pan raised high, he glared around the door into what he could see of the room. Not much was in his view and, aside from green sparks in the fireplace, nothing seemed out of place.

Green…sparks.

Ron's hands drooped, pan falling to his side. He suddenly felt more awake. And foolish.

As his heartbeat settled back down he placed the pan on the floor. Now that he was thinking straight, he remembered how many wards were around the house. More importantly, he recalled how common it was for his family to burst in unannounced. Any of them could get through the floo and, though it was just past dawn, even the Weasleys had a few early risers (all of whom were mental, Ron was convinced, but to each their own).

Now relaxed, Ron strode forward and pulled the door properly open. He blinked at the sight. Before a second had passed he'd leapt back and slammed against the outer wall, heartbeat pounding away once more.

'Fuck fuck _fuck_ ,' Ron silently cursed, not daring to take another peek into the living room. Not when Harry was standing only a few feet from his current hiding spot. That the other man was levitating a stuffed animal over the cooing Rose was hardly reassuring.

His suspicions returned in a rapid free fall. Was Harry planning on grabbing Rosie and running? Was he going to hold her hostage until Ron apologised for the gala? Not that he was worried about his daughter's safety. When he got her back she was sure to be filled with biscuits and happily rambling about her 'Unca Hawy'. But that was beside the point!

Ron dismissed these musings and willed himself to properly wake up. Because Harry wasn't going to steal Rose, obviously. That wasn't his thing (spoiling her or no). Unless he'd accidentally driven his friend so far over the edge that…

Ron dismissed this even more frantically. He was being stupid. Rose would most likely be used for sympathy points. After all, one word from her beloved godfather and the little girl would make big puppy dog eyes at any who dared challenge Harry. It didn't matter if the 'challenger' was her actual dad.

That, or Harry would use Rosie as a human shield. Which was a possibility, bluff or no.

Ron took another another wary look into the living room. Rosie had stopped fussing and was delightedly clapping her hands and her new toy bunny at Harry, who was making funny faces at her. The watching wizard sighed, certain now that the plan was to turn his daughter against him. He supposed he should meet this head on, hopefully preventing the two from hatching a nefarious plan…not that he actually thought his baby girl would conspire against him. But with Harry involved, he wasn't ruling anything out.

Taking a deep breath, Ron left the hallway and strolled into the line of fire. He didn't alert them to his presence until he'd grabbed his wand and tucked it into his sleeve. Then he faced the threat, gathering his Gryffindor courage to him. "Look, pranks or no? Corrupting my daughter is—"

"Ron, hey!" Harry turned around brightly. He didn't seem to be annoyed, plotting, or raging. He was grinning like he hadn't a care in the world. "Sorry I barged in early. Hermione up? I think the floo bugged Rosie. But she's calm now, aren't you sweetie?" He spoke the last down to the crib, voice gentle and happy.

"Dada, dada! Unca Hawy gave me bunny!" Rosie giggled, hugging the stuffed animal to her. "S'call you Fluffy. FLUFFY!"

Ron was at a loss. It was odd enough to see Harry this cheerful, but the bloke ought to be royally peeved. Maybe he hadn't seen the _Prophet_ yet? Even if he hadn't, he should still be at ends about everything else. "You're, ah, in a good mood?"

"The best!" he didn't seem able to stop grinning. "Really great night. Hermione here?"

"Upstairs. Though she's sick, grouchy, and has a wand. Best not to disturb her." Ron scratched the nape of his neck, not knowing what to make of this. He didn't want to think about what the 'really great night' comment could mean. "What's up?"

"Oh. Hope she feels better soon," Harry's smile momentarily fell out of concern for Hermione. Still, it seemed impossible for him to stop beaming for long. "But I have brilliant news! You know Ginny's going on a writing retreat for the week? We figured a check-in at St. Mungo's would be an idea. Nah, stop frowning: everything's fine, they're both good. Though see, part of the prenatal tests was an ultrasound. I know you want to keep yours a surprise, but Gin and I were talking and, well," he shrugged, grin giddy, "we're having a daughter! A baby girl!"

Ron's worries fell away. Replaced with good cheer, he clapped his brother-in-law's shoulder. "Fantastic! Congrats mate. Lucky man: girls are much easier than boys."

Harry humphed, though his delight didn't falter. "Says you! You only have Rosie here." He turned to address the little toddler nibbling on her fist. "Not that you aren't adorable. But your dad's a bit daft."

"Only Rosie?" Ron repeated. "Hah! Like I'm not stuck babysitting your hellions enough. Or have you forgotten when Jamie hid a grindylow in a bathtub? Oh no, don't tell me it was 'just a baby monster fish'. The fact that you missed the thing floating around for a bloody week tells me you have too many bathrooms. Not sure if my godson's a genius or you lot are idiots. Still, trust me! Girls are easier."

"Jamie's…well, Al's pretty normal. As for Rosie she, ah, screams?" Harry pointed out with an apologetic look at his uncaring goddaughter. He didn't take offence at the hellion or idiot comments: likely due to the reminder of how many creatures had so far followed his baby boy home. "Besides, that doesn't matter to me. A girl! I'm having a daughter!"

"Which is brilliant. Really, that's wonderful." Ron was being completely sincere, but he had to stop a laugh at the other wizard's jubilant expression. This new baby already had Harry wrapped around her partly formed finger. Good on her. "Thought of names yet?"

Ron was amazed at how quickly the beam slipped off Harry's face. "Unfortunately."

"Eh?" Ron was taken aback by the abrupt change in tone. But in realising what the problem was, it took all his self-restraint not to snicker. "What name has Ginny come up with this time? I didn't think she could get worse than 'Hedwig Pigwidgeon' for Jamie. Or wanting her own codename for the Aurors to be 'Harpy'."

"Worse. Much worse." Harry rubbed his eyes, pushing his glasses up. "I'm this close to going back to her suggestion of 'Fleamont', just to make her relent."

The conversation suddenly became far more entertaining. Ron moved closer, not willing to risk missing a syllable. "Fawkes Fleamont? You'd, you'd go with _Fawkes Fleamont Potter_ over whatever crazy—"

"She likes the name Lily," Harry sighed, looking back up at his friend. The entertainment factor somewhat dwindled. "So, yeah. I'd go with a mad name over what'll get me threatened for my supposed name-hogging."

"Come on, we know it isn't you." Ron caught Harry's incredulous look. He backtracked. "That is, most of us know Ginny's the barmy one. Even I'll admit Severus trumps Fleamont. Though, ack, what a compromise! Why was she even on the memorial thing in the first place?" He clicked his fingers in mock remembrance. "Wait, wasn't that your fault?"

Harry sent him a look. 'A look' which said he was well aware Ron hadn't forgotten anything and merely relished making him rehash it. "Yeah, because _someone_ got George and me drunk."

"Right. Then you geniuses decided to take some Unbreakable Vows," Ron said wisely. He ignored the deep scowl Harry gave him. "Which resulted in James Sirius, Fred George, and McGonagall's vow of eternal vengeance."

"Will you shut up!"

"Which Angie and Ginny weren't pleased at, and how did you not know she was gearing for revenge?" Ron sniggered. "Still, I wouldn't be shocked if she genuinely liked the name 'Albus' and only 'Severus' was added to piss you off." There was no attempt made to hide his chuckling. "Which you only went along with because it trumped 'Fleamont'—which I'm almost positive she was sincere about, mad woman with her obsession for hair products. Even Hermione was close to naming Rosie after _your_ grandfather!" He frowned, remembering his own close call. "Only got her to relent by distracting her with the hilarity that your family made hair taming products. Always makes her laugh for hours, that one."

"You enjoy my pain, don't you?"

"Absolutely," Ron was glad his best mate was catching on. It had taken him enough decades. "So, little Lily Potter the Second. Cute."

"We aren't calling her Lily!" Harry's tone was as stubborn as it got. "It's not happening: bad enough two of my kids have morbid names. I'm talking her out of it." Doubt fell over his features. "Ginny liked 'Fawkes' before, it might sway her? It sort of sounds normal said aloud. Right? Tell me I'm right. Or is it even weirder as a girl's name? Least her birthday will be in early December and not November. That's something, yeah?"

Ron shrugged, certain he'd burst out laughing if he opened his mouth.

"Why is this even a problem? We're talking about a namesake from _my_ mum!" Harry exclaimed, now undeniably worried. "Sure, Ginny's the one who's pregnant. But the possible name's on my side of the family! I should be able to veto this. Or, hey. How about 'Molly'? Molly's a fantastic name! Similar meaning but not depressing."

"Percy beat you to it," Ron managed to get out without guffawing.

"He doesn't have a monopoly on it!" Harry protested. "Why does he get the nice names? All I'm asking for is one bloody name that isn't dea—Hermione. Hermione! It's, ah, Shakespearean yeah? Course, 'Winter's Tale', like her codename. Classical's good, I think. Isn't it?"

"Hermione will slap you if you do that," Ron pointed out. "Rant at you for hours about 'cursing the poor child with a mouthful of a name'. Anyway, what's so bad about 'Lily'?"

"It's depressing."

"Well sure. But aside from that it's nice enough."

"Or, or 'Luna'!" Harry grappled for an alternative. "That'd be great."

Ron snorted, seeing the obvious problem. "That works."

"Brilliant! I can just—"

"After all, there's no way Ginny will think 'Lily Luna' sounds precious." Ron eyed his best friend's falling face. "It's not like she's been itching for an alliterative name…"

"She was serious about that?" Harry said weakly.

Ron didn't even bother responding. But he did let out the laugh he'd been holding back. It wasn't appreciated.

* * *

It was shortly thereafter that Ron remembered he'd left the half-done peanut butter pickles in the kitchen. Harry didn't raise an eyebrow at the odd food, or at Ron's hesitance to go back upstairs after such a lengthy delay. Though Harry had looked askance at the pan by the entrance to the living room, Ron had shoved a coffee in his face to stave off any questions.

Soon enough, the pickles had been delivered, Rosie was slurping a bottle in her dad's lap, and the two wizards had managed not to burn a few pieces of toast for breakfast:

("Audrey got to it last week," Ron groaned in true anguish, staring at the steaming pile of molten black bread slices. "'Revolutionary toaster', she told us. 'Toasts in seconds', she said. Didn't mention it was using heliopath fire! Should've learned all Unspeakables were batty after that time-turner nonsense."

Harry spat out the edge of his harshly-crisped toast. "Heliopaths exist?"

"Too afraid to ask. Aha! There we go, this one's near edible.")

Frankly, Ron wasn't sure why Harry was still in his kitchen. Not that the bloke didn't usually linger about at all hours (recent cold war aside), but he'd thought the news about his daughter would be enough to make him stick to Ginny like glue. Also, Ron was rather hoping the Dark Lord Defeater would piss off well before the morning's _Daily Prophet_ came. Best not be in the direct line of fire.

"Sooo," Ron drew out, patting Rosie's back, "as much as I love hearing about little Lily Fleamont Potter—yeah yeah, don't spit toast at me—why're you cleaning out my fridge?"

Harry gave Ron a look. 'A look' that clearly asked how a coffee and molten bread slices could clean out a fridge. Or, perhaps, 'a look' that pointed out Ron's hypocrisy as he frequently invited himself over to dinner at the Potters. But then the Head Auror, shaking his head, visibly put this aside.

"There was another reason I popped over," Harry chewed over his words sheepishly. He paused to glance down at his communication mirror that had begun to buzz, but didn't answer it. "Hearing the news put some stuff in perspective. I'm…well, I'm sorry for overreacting at work. It's, what did Hermione say? Like the pranks you pull on your siblings? I hadn't thought about it like that. I'm sorry, sending you to that acromantula was cruel. Even before that, I shouldn't have made McLaggen your partner just because you were taking the mick. Not only was it too much, but making a work decision based off of my irritation? It was childish of me. I'll reassign McLaggen when I get in today. To make it up to you, you can get your pick of available partners. How does that sound?"

"Oh. Huh." Ron froze, thoughts flying back to his call with Shacklebolt. He eyed the window nervously, certain the paper was due soon. The mirror had stopped buzzing.

"I like the idea of a mentoring partnership in the short term, but there's plenty of Junior Aurors able to hold their own," Harry continued, oblivious to Ron's fidgeting. "After that, it's your pick and…seriously, I'm sorry. I know you're mainly out of sorts because I'm not in the field anymore, and I haven't been making things easier. You shouldn't have done all that to your partners, but me shoving that git on you for months was underhanded. Not to mention the acromantula! So, err, we alright? Truce?"

"Yeah. Yeah, course we're alright," Ron said weakly, listening to Harry's mirror as it resumed buzzing. Was it his imagination or did it sound more urgent? "Still, me constantly bothering you? I was kind of out of line."

Harry scoffed. "Ron, it's us. I got caught up with things and took all of this too seriously. Don't worry about it. Like I said, I should be the one apologising."

"No, really. I'm sorry." Ron silently cursed the still-ringing mirror. "Absolutely not okay of me. You get a new job and I make your life more chaotic?"

"You were rightly pissed off, but went a bit overboard." Harry then sighed, reaching for his pocket. "Wait a mo, I should take this."

"Sure." Ron eyed the exit. As the other wizard put the device to his ear, he wondered if using Rose as a human shield might actually work.

"Lo Taylor," Harry said into the speaker, a veil of impatience over his tone. "Is this an emergency? I'm in the middle of something."

Ron slowly lifted up his cooing daughter.

"I'll be in by seven," Harry continued, glancing at the ceiling. "Whatever's there can wait. I'm sure that, hold on. What did you say? Have I seen the _Prophet_? No, not yet. Shacklebolt? Course we're still at odds. Why…never mind, tell me when I'm in. I'll head for the office now."

Harry grumbled a bit, putting the mirror in his pocket before looking back up. "Like I need another tabloid story in the—Ron? Uh, why are you holding Rose like that?"

"Like what?" Ron said normally, speaking as his daughter was dangling—laughing—right in front of his head.

"Like that."

"Nothing wrong with this!" Ron said quickly, false cheer in his voice. Rosie giggled at her funny daddy, swishing her legs back and forth. "Not like I'm using my daughter as a human shield or anything. Pfft, course not. On a completely unrelated note: what did Taylor say about the _Daily Prophet_?"

Harry eyed him strangely. He also slowly got up, as though afraid Ron was about to leap at him. "Not much. Say, ah, I'm going to head to the Ministry. You are feeling okay, yeah?"

"Course I am!"

"Sure," Harry backed away, though sent a concerned look at the gleefully squirming Rose who was still held aloft. "I'm glad we get the other stuff squared away. I'll, I guess, see you in a bit? Please don't drop Rosie."

"See you!" Ron said with an edge of hysteria. He was already considering taking the day off sick…though that would mean Harry would hunt him down. Might be best to face the music.

Rosie giggled, squirming around to poke her dad's nose.

* * *

Ron crept quietly into the Auror department, intent on racing to his office before he could be spotted. But this idea came to an end before it could begin. For there, waiting a foot from the main door, stood his very unimpressed brother-in-law. It looked like he'd been waiting for awhile (as a group of eavesdropping-happy Aurors had gathered just beyond reach in 'hiding places', eagerly listening in).

" _My parents?_ " Harry said as Ron froze mid-step. His stare was steely. "You used my parents' memory as a _prank?_ "

"Huh?" Ron batted down his triumphant grin (scared or no, he was still impressed with himself at a plan well done). This was aided when he saw his brother-in-law itching for his wand. Things became a lot less amusing when a Wizarding Saviour was eyeing you like a bullseye. "Course I didn't. That'd be as mental as using a dead acromantula as a prank."

"You aren't switching partners!" Harry's eyes furrowed into a glare. Forget the wand: he seemed ready to deck Ron. "I'm not reassigning McLaggen and you're damn lucky I'm not doing anything worse! _You've forced me to go to the blasted gala!_ If I continued this idiotic thing, I'd be more than justified! But I'm going to be professional and take the high road. So shut the hell up and stay out of my way!"

Harry turned to storm away (the eavesdroppers breathed disappointed sighs). Ron knew he should be quiet. He really did. But… "What happened to you taking things too seriously?"

The Head Auror stopped, his shoulder-blades tensing. He gave a harsh look back at the Senior Auror. "If you say another word, I'll let Hermione know you're behind this. You think she'll like you using a poor orphan's parents as petty revenge?"

Ron blinked. Then blinked again, opening his mouth. "A, a poor orphan? What're you on…?"

" _One more word!_ " Harry hissed out. Without waiting for an answer he spun around and strode off.

* * *

A chill swept through London as October flew by. It was a pleasant chill, however, brought about by the foggy weather and changing leaves. In most other ways a warmth had returned to the city: museums were stuffed, St. James' was filled with prams, and a cheery hustle and bustle rose in every street centre and corner pub.

Wizarding London was equally cheerful. By late October the Sweenies and the Rippers had barely struck since the King's Cross incident. The fear that had gripped Diagon Alley during the Summer had quelled, and now shoppers happily browsed the shopping area until well past sunset. The Ministry was also optimistic at this reprieve. From the Atrium's Fountain spouting streams of candy (thanks not to a whole department but to Arthur Weasley, who had embraced the spirit of trick-or-treating by sneaking in WWW products which turned every bite into an animal's roar) to the excited candour throughout the offices, one and all had put the darkness to the side and were comparing outfits for the Halloween Gala.

There were exceptions to this cheer, of course. Kingsley Shacklebolt had found to be careful for what he wished for. Though he was no longer being blamed for Fudge's disappearance and had a lead in the election (with no other viable candidates), the hit to his popularity was hard to swallow. Getting Harry Potter to give the keynote speech at the gala had also turned sour. For while the celebrated wizard had reluctantly agreed and this had promoted both of them in the papers, the Head Auror had made it clear that this meant war.

As for the MLE, only the junior agents bothered with cheeriness: the rest were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Extra security measures abounded, focused on the Ministry and the upcoming gala. There were also more guards around to keep back the press, who'd taken a newly giddy interest in the Potters (as nothing could beat ensuing scandals, crime sprees, and a pregnancy).

Worst for Ron was that the calls from the victims' families never slowed. He also wondered if the Sweenies had truly stopped, or if they'd retreated back to easy targets who weren't being reported as missing. Lisa had a similar concern about the Rippers, thinking that they'd reacted to the increased press by starting to discreet dispose of the bodies rather than display them. Both were aware of the simultaneous break in the two groups and did rethink that they might be related. But the signatures and motivations were simply too different, and it made more sense that they'd both backed up due to the high Auror and public focus on their crimes.

Aside from this speculation, progress on the crime sprees was as halted as ever. The manpower that had been involved with them shifted to checking every little bit of the wards in and out of the Ministry to make sure nothing would go awry at further Wizengamot meetings and at the Halloween gala. Course, there were other problems concerning Halloween that they couldn't prevent.

 _Witch Weekly_ was speculating that, instead of giving a speech, Harry would honour his parents' memory by giving a reenactment of Voldemort's defeat (using Kingsley Shacklebolt as the Dark Lord's stand-in). The _Daily Prophet_ felt that Harry would use the spotlight to announce his creation of a breakaway party in the Wizengamot and his candidacy for Minister of Magic.

Soon enough, the MLE cued into the fact that the extra guards keeping back the reporters was more for the press' safety than the Head Auror's.

Given that demolishing the paparazzi was standard operating practice for Harry, Ron tried to settle down. But he couldn't ignore the uneasy feeling that Harry really might do something outrageous on Halloween, and that it would surely have more to do with vengeance on himself than a political coup d'état.

* * *

Ron remembered when he'd realised how strange the Sunday Dinners at the Burrow were. He'd been chatting about the tradition years ago to Susan, making small talk while on an overnight stakeout with her and Harry. She, an only child with no surviving relatives, was flabbergasted that so many of them crammed into his parents' house each weekend. But she'd smiled, saying how nice it must be to get together and have a relaxing evening to catch up.

Harry had snorted at that, choking on some water. "Relaxing?" he coughed, regaining his breath. "That'll be the day! Even calling it a dinner's a stretch."

Ron had sent him an odd look. "Okay, sure, there's some screaming. But between the potluck and mum overfilling the place with food, of course it's a dinner. What else is it supposed to be?"

"Screaming? _Screaming?_ " Harry had given him a long look. He'd turned to Susan with a scarred expression. "It's not a dinner. It's a massacre."

While Ron had drawn this up to his best friend being his typical, melodramatic self, he did admit there was a grain of truth in it. Sunday Family Dinners were a tinge terrifying. This was because gathering every Weasley/Potter in the same place was guaranteed to begin and end in disaster.

Much of the terror had originated in Angelina's and Ginny's games of pick-up Quidditch, Charlie dragging in one ferocious beast after another (who were all, "Cuddly, misunderstood animals in need of adoptive homes and, say Percy, don't you have a spare bedroom? Audrey doesn't mind scales, yeah?"), George's latest explosive invention (which he'd oh-so-accidentally add to the shepherd's pie), and Audrey 'bringing around' dimension-shifting experiments from the Department of Mysteries. Still, Ron knew Harry's massacre comment had nothing to do with any of that. It was instead in reference to a practice that'd begun as soon as multiple couples had started having kids.

It had started innocently enough…Requests for a babysitter while someone was out of town. Or two working parents found that their schedules clashed every other Wednesday, leaving neither of them at home. Or the knowledge that dumping more than five toddlers at the Burrow would make Molly shift from being a thrilled grandmum to a sabertoothed mum/mum-in-law. So it was decided that using Sunday Dinners to trade off babysitting favours would be a grand idea.

They should have known that nothing involving them could be that easy. Not only were there too many kids, but most of the adults had demanding work schedules. The supply didn't meet the demand and tallied up 'favours' soon became more precious than gold.

The Potters had been the first to try to innovate this system (to no one's great surprise). George was mildly put-out he hadn't thought of it first, but was consoled by Angelina that not even his love for trouble could match the terror that resulted from mixing Harry's sarcastic creativity with Ginny's sheer nerve (or vice versa: no one could agree on that point).

Waltzing into the Burrow one night a few years previously, Ginny had given a high-pitched whistle to the startled faces. "LO! We need someone to take Teddy and Jamie for the weekend. No, we don't have any favours, and we're too busy for the next few weeks to trade off babysitting. Any takers?"

The assorted Weasleys in the living room had immediately snorted. Before any could respond, Harry had spoken up. "George, the nundo incident Andy still doesn't know about. Bill, the 11th of June last year. We'll take an Unbreakable Vow to never mention it again in return. Sound good?"

Everyone blinked, staring at them in confusion. All except the two mentioned.

"Evil," Bill gaped at the unrepentant couple. "You two are actually—"

"Evil incarnate." George, as he got over his instant horror, was supremely impressed. "Ginnikins, you've been hiding inner depths!"

"Really? I always thought I made them obvious," Ginny hummed. Harry gave her an adoring look. "Now then, next weekend?"

"Stupid buggers, alright." George gave in without protest.

"Hold up," Bill retorted, glaring at George, "I want that Vow!"

"I said it first." George was unapologetic. "Whatever they have on you, it can't be as bad as a literal nundo."

"You'd be surprised," Bill sent a peeved glance at the Potters. "You swore you'd take it to your graves!"

"Which we still might," Harry coaxed.

"There's plenty of other weekends," Ginny happily agreed. She turned to the rest of the room. "By the by, just because we didn't mention you doesn't mean you're safe." She sent a particularly pointed look at her husband's flabbergasted best friends.

The Potters' usage of blackmail over the family had much potential. Most of the other couples admitted it was a brilliant (albeit scary and underhanded) idea. They began going over their own compiled secrets on the others to see how they could similarly cash in. That is, all except for one pair.

It didn't escape Ron's and Hermione's notice that the Potters had the most stuff on them (Ginny's delighted hint had made that much clear). They also realised that the Potters had been requesting Vows from the others to not tell their own secrets (for a period of two years, citing a bogus security concern) several weeks before pouncing George and Bill. So it was that two thirds of the Golden Trio were horrified to learn that they had astonishingly little blackmail to retaliate with.

That was, until Hermione put her genius to good work.

A few stories in the _Prophet_ later about how Harry and Ginny had an open marriage and were recruiting for a harem, the couple in question raced into the next Sunday Dinner pale and furious (a flock of screeching owls with Howlers and perfumed love letters following behind them). The Potters swore up and down to leave the 'favours-for-babysitting' system as it was if only they'd print a retraction.

Ron and Hermione, pleased as punch, made it clear to the rest of the group that they'd do worse to the next couple who used blackmail to get babysitters.

There hadn't been an incident of 'innovation' since.

* * *

That wasn't to say that Sunday dinners at the Burrow had become relaxing. Far from it. So it wasn't a shock that the current meet up in late October went downhill before they'd eaten a bite…

"BABYSITTER, HALLOWEEN!" Ron hollered, cutting through the opening greetings and causing the living room to turn to him. Most of the couples were already present, though Molly was sorting through the potluck dishes in the kitchen, and Arthur was out back showing his new telescope to many of his grandkids. Andromeda had just returned after shooing off Teddy and Victoire from 'enhancing' the Victoria Sponge. "WE'RE GIVING TWO FAVOURS!"

"WHAT? NO!" Ginny shrieked, having hurled into the room (dragging a startled Harry with her, who'd been chuckling at and repairing the polka dotted sponge cake) in hearing Ron's loud pronouncement. Baby Albus giggled in her arms. "WE DON'T START UNTIL AFTER DINNER! Besides, it's entirely your fault we have to go. You don't get to cut the line!"

"With so many of us attending the gala," Hermione chimed in, meeting the Potters' stormy looks straight-on. Rosie stuck her tongue out, flopping her feet against her mum's tummy, "we thought it best to start early. Also, we're hardly cutting the queue."

"TWO FAVOURS!" It was Harry's turn to shout, Ginny furiously nodding along with him. "Two favours for Saturday to whoever—"

"Ron said it first," George said cheerily, happy to add to the chaos. He flopped back in the love seat, arm wrapped around his wife. "Angie and I are free. When do you want to drop off Rose?"

"Six'd be great, thanks," Ron grinned.

"FIVE FAVOURS!" Audrey screamed from her's and Percy's perch on the couch, unconcerned when both Potters stared furiously at her.

"We're next!" Ginny hollered indignantly, still standing in the crowded room.

"We're offering more," Percy retorted, returning to address the others. "On top of that, our kids are well-behaved."

"Our kids are…" Harry began to protest, before finding himself at a loss for words, "Al's great! And Jamie hasn't conjured a dragon in a week."

"Two weeks!" Ginny chimed in, sensing the room was getting away from them.

"Five favours, eh?" Bill turned to Fleur, then shrugged and nodded to a delighted Audrey. "We didn't want to go to the gala anyway. Six PM too?"

"I hate all of you," Ginny glimmered. "I really, really do."

"COME ON, FIVE FAVOURS!" Harry exclaimed, seeing their options rapidly shrinking.

"I was thinking of a relaxing night myself," Andromeda hummed, causing both Potters to gape at her.

"For you?" George said gallantly. "No favours needed, Andy. It'd be a pleasure to take young Teddy."

"Oh Merlin," Andromeda sighed at his eager response, well aware that she was going to regret this. "No convincing him to be a guinea pig for one of your potions."

"Hah, like he'd need convincing," George waved off. "You sure he isn't a secret Weasley? Gets into more trouble than this lot combined. And that's without him trying! Though, to be fair, Vicky might be the mastermind."

"What did you say about my daughter?" Bill raised an eyebrow.

"That she iz a nefarious genius," Fleur patted her husband's shoulder, legs folded over his armchair's seat. She glanced back out at the room, waving a dismissive hand. "Go on, on with ze argument."

"Come on!" Ginny leapt back in, lifting up her drooling baby as though he would help her case. "One babysitter, that's all we need!"

"Huh," Charlie eyed Harry speculatively. He was slouched by the window seat, having been laughing at his siblings' and in-laws' misfortune while celebrating his bachelorhood. More than one couple had gotten close to punching him, what with his snide reminders of his nomadic lifestyle every time he visited (when not roaming from dragon reservation, to tropical beach, to the Vegas Strip). "You know, I need a favour done—"

"NO!" The Potters shouted en unison.

"What! I'm being nice."

"I don't trust you with favours," Harry held up his hands and backed away a step, "not after the salamander firework incident." The group gave a shudder, all except George and Charlie (who were faintly nostalgic at the pleasant reminder).

"And I don't trust you with my kids!" Ginny said firmly, ignoring Charlie's mock gasp. "Come on, you lot. One babysitter who isn't a pyro!"

"OI, I resemble that comment!" Charlie hollered back, smirk not having left his face.

"Y'know," Angelina said to George, "we could babysit more kids."

"Indeed we could. Though I'm not sure we qualify with this anti-pyro sentiment." George sent the Potters a cheeky grin. "Still, only five favours for your hellions on such a busy night? Tsk, tsk. Unless you want to get a random babysitter, who could sell a tell-all to _Witch Weekly_ …"

"What do you want," Ginny cut to the chase. "We aren't upping the bloody favours."

"Oh, no no. We weren't thinking of that. In fact," Angelina's amused look shifted into one of consideration, than of seriousness. She looked at Harry, "the matter I've been asking about…?"

"No," Harry cut her off, firm but apologetic. He sent a small glance at a confused Ron. "I'm sorry, but no. Like I've told you before, it isn't something I can talk about."

George had by now gotten a look of realisation as well and was frowning at his wife. Everyone else blinked at them, not knowing what was going on.

Ginny hesitantly spoke up, taken aback by the sudden tension. "Harry, if they—"

"It's about work," Harry didn't look away from Angelina, whose lips were furrowing. "Doesn't matter now, _as they know I can't bloody well tell them._ "

"What about work?" Hermione frowned. Harry and Angelina didn't glance at her.

"Yeah, I got that," Angelina said thinly, bringing whatever it was to an end. "Fine. Fine, Potter. We'll babysit on Halloween. Drop them off at six as well."

"Angie—"

"It's fine, George. Everything's fine," Angelina almost matched Harry's earlier tone of glossing it away. With a shake of her head she sniffed the air, forcing on a smile. "And I think I smell dinner! If the babysitting nonsense is over with, how about we head in."

* * *

Though an auspicious start, the off-balanced couples haphazardly made their way to the dining room. Kids were picked up or dropped off on the way, where most of the older children were happy to overfill their plates with food and scamper to the living room (led by Teddy and Vicky, who were both trying to avoid their guardians after the sponge incident, and were keen to build a pillow fortress for dinner). It would have been difficult to cram the kids into the dining room anyway. Expanding spells could only do so much with this many people and high chairs, and it was too chilly to eat outside.

So it was that after the older kids had scampered off, the babies were splattering their mushed up food, and the adults had sorted out silverware and seating (with a near miss of Molly near hexing George for enchanting the forks to whiz about, and where Audrey gave a shriek and a fall when her chair ended up being more metaphorical than tangible), everyone could finally settle down to eat.

That is, eat and talk over each other. Around the table conversations were being flung around simultaneously, with the participants juggling and switching between them. Still, central discussion did form. In one corner, Andromeda, Ginny, and Angelina were bonding over bringing up troublemakers.

"Oh no, Roxanne is the one who takes the cake," Angelina had returned to a good cheer (with the help of a touch of white wine). "Freddie likes trouble well enough, but Roxy's the one who goes searching for it. Course, the two are inseparable, so it amounts to the same amount of chaos."

"Teddy claims he stumbles into it, but the tyke is see through," Andromeda sympathised. "Hair turns bright yellow whenever he's lying! Just like his mum, that way. Haven't told him about his tell, naturally. Victoire's figured it out, but the bright dear has the good sense to keep it quiet."

"Naturally." Ginny nodded firmly. "Teddy shakes his head a bit too when lying. Luckily for us, Jamie's picked up that habit. Not a shock, seeing as he takes Teddy's every word as gospel."

Angelina fully agreed. "You won't catch me telling Freddie he wrinkles his nose with white lies. I think Roxy's catching on, though, and is bound to tell him. Too smart by half. George's proud as punch about all of this, of course."

"Harry as well," Ginny pinched her nose. "He laughs at the craziness every time. His standards for what constitutes as normal is right mad. Oh, a hinkypuff followed Jamie home? That's practically ordinary! Oh, a grindylow too? Better put it in the upstairs bathroom! Sorry, it's a she? My mistake."

"I think that's the problem with Teddy. Having little sense of normalcy, I mean," Andromeda commiserated. "Being around people who laugh at his mischief makes an impression. Opposite of my upbringing, I dare say! Though, he has gotten better lately. I think Harry sat him down to explain the difference between a good-hearted joke and one that can have consequences."

"Good on him," Angelina admitted, her annoyance at Harry still prickling. Ginny opened her mouth, then closed it, visibly deciding that now was a bad time to ask. "George's been talking about doing the same thing. He doesn't want the twins picking up bad habits from his stories of 'old capers'."

Andromeda nodded miserably. "Exactly. Though Circe knows how I'm supposed to tell Teddy about his parents without mentioning my daughter's love of leaping into the fray, or the sheer calamity that the Marauders left in their wake!"

"Don't even get me started on Harry," Ginny grumbled good-naturedly. "He seems oblivious to it, too! All thanks to his insane life. I'm close to pulling Jamie out of the room whenever he, Ron, and Hermione get to talking about old times. If I catch Jamie making up another plan to break into Gringotts, 'just like his daddy'…"

"Or a plan to fly a car to Hogwarts." Angelina gave a deep sigh, rubbing her forehead. "Roxie already has plans to enchant a kayak in her first year. A kayak!"

"It's a dragon for Jamie," Ginny said, feeling her pain. "Like that's a surprise! I blame Charlie for that one."

"Teddy's set on a motorcycle." Andromeda frowned to herself. "Though that might be my fault. One too many stories of his father's and Sirius Black's escapades, I believe."

"To them turning eleven, flying the coop, and raising hell at Hogwarts." Angelina raised her glass in a toast. With a chuckle, the other women followed suit.

On the other side of the table, the conversation was more fiery:

"—one little exception," Charlie was all but pleading, with George nodding eagerly over his shoulder. Both were eating lasagna on autopilot, gazes directed at their resolute brother-in-law. "A tiny one, I swear!"

Harry was looking around for anyway to escape the conversation. "For the last time: you aren't smuggling a dragon egg through Heathrow. Stop making me repeat that."

"Bringing," Charlie corrected. " _Bringing_ a dragon egg through Heathrow."

"Nope! Not happening. Or, if you're dim enough to try it, I'm not aiding and abetting." Harry paused, considering his words. "Least not for a good reason—which you don't have!"

"You're overthinking this," Charlie pressed. "International dragon transportation isn't a big deal. You even did it when you were eleven! This time, I could have a legitimate permit."

Harry gave a long sigh. "If there even are permits, I'm not the one who gives them out. Also, really? You're bringing up Norberta? Though, on that note, I've always meant to ask. What sort of mad friends do you have that they'd fly to Scotland in the dead of night and take a baby dragon from a few kids?"

"The most awesome sort of friends," Charlie replied smugly. "You're still welcome for that, by the way. Also, you're you. You can write a permit for anything, don't bloody well deny it."

"No dragon smuggling!"

"One little egg! It's only an Iron Belly—"

" _Hermione!_ "

"Not now, Harry," Hermione waved off before returning to her own conversation. "I agree, I do. But I can see why people would be less…enamoured with pies these days."

"Pish posh," Molly huffed, neatly cutting the pasta and pesto. "That's no excuse for the harsh judging! Docking points from my blueberry pie because it 'reminds them of the Sweeney kidnappings' is ridiculous. Making a mockery of the horrid crimes, as well as of the baking competition! 'This is the year for cakes,' they had the nerve to tell me. Only after the fact, too!"

"Which is nonsense," Hermione nodded along, but her mother-in-law was already continuing.

"If it was a meat pie or pasty, yes, I could perhaps see the point. But it was blueberry! Not a speck of meat in the thing. Did they think it tasted like that? Arthur, did it taste like anything other than fruit and pastry?"

"Of course not, dear," he replied, not turning from his chat with Percy about the mechanics of the London Tube and the possibilities of adding trampolines to cut down on waiting times.

Meanwhile, Bill, Fleur, and Audrey were lambasting politics.

"Good riddance, I say," Audrey spun about a spoonful of mashed potato, narrowly missing her husband with an enthusiastic wave. "I feel bad for Fudge, course. Though it couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke! Makes the voting choice easier, but I don't see why we can't get a decent batch of politicians."

Fleur's fork paused at her mouth. "Ze best people to lead are zey ooo do not seek it." She took a bite, smiling at the warm lasagna.

"Awful, that. All corrupt or power-hungry." Bill frowned. "Don't know what's wrong with Kingsley these days. He was brilliant for years."

"Political pressure, dear. The country is twitchy with ze sprees. In theory, it was smart to focus on ze end of ze war's anniversary. He only overdid it a touch."

"Meaning he turned it into a debacle," Audrey pointed out. "Great way to alienate all the war heroes at once! Right brilliant idea."

"Oh, not all of them. The pissed off ones are just more vocal," Bill sniggered, sending a pointed glance at Harry—who was still arguing over Charlie's and George's pleas to give a dragon asylum. "I blame that bloke, what's his name, Reginald Ripley. Planner of the memorials, you know? Kept adding more and more things to it before, Bam! It was all over the papers and Kingsley couldn't take any of it back."

"Doesn't mean I want to vote for him," Audrey said. "One candidate. All I'm asking for is one candidate who can't be bought by the highest bidder."

"Or another flip-flopping and corrupt Fudge." Was Fleur's addition. "It's a matter of time before ze pop out from the wings."

"Fair enough. Like you said, all the good blokes wouldn't want the job." Bill paused, brightened, and twisted to holler down the table. "OI, HARRY! FANCY RUNNING FOR MINISTER?"

"NOT ON YOUR LIFE!" Harry didn't miss a beat before turning back to George. "For the last time: if you're going to sneak in dragon scales, don't bloody well tell me! Plausible deniability, ever heard of it?"

Molly frowned at their conversation, overhearing in the short silence about Bill's and Harry's shouts. Her voice became dangerous. "What sort of scales?"

"Not scales, don't worry mum," Charlie waved off over George's continuing protest to Harry's stubbornness. "Just a small dragon asylum—"

" _I'm not giving you a permit!_ "

"There's that, then." Bill had dimmed at Harry's negative answer to entering politics. He considered for another moment. "HERMIONE?"

"DON'T EVEN ASK!" Was the witch's quick reply, before she too caught up to the ensuing argument. "What's this about dragons? HARRY, IF YOU'RE SMUGGLING A DRAGON INTO THE COUNTRY—"

"COURSE I'M NOT!"

"—WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE, I'M NOT BREAKING YOU OUT OF GAOL!"

Harry opened his mouth to shout back, before processing Hermione's exact words. "…what now?"

Ron guffawed, having been happy to stay out of the conversations and play patty cake with Rosie in her high chair. "Like you're surprised."

"Alrighty then," Audrey mused as the rest of the table erupted into madness. "Though it's a shame. It'd be hilarious to see their campaign."

Ron couldn't help but agree, now properly watching as Harry and Hermione dissolved into a loud argument about their past dragon escapades and prison/bank break-ins. Both missed the dangerously scarlet tinge on Molly's cheeks at the sheer length of the list, though it wasn't long before she leapt into the fray. This—alongside Charlie's protests of their 'mistreatment' of the Gringotts' dragon, Percy's faint shock, and George's and Ginny's mutters that they missed out on all the fun—meant it was some time before things quieted down enough for dessert.

Though, Ron found himself wishing that the explosive argument had continued even longer. Because in the chaos he missed that Angelina (usually the one most likely to jump across the table to strangle her opponent) had fallen silent. Even more worryingly? As the pudding was demolished and arguments continued to be shouted through full mouth, she paid far more attention to sneaking glances at Ron then to her dessert.

The moment a wand was whisking the bowls away, she'd pushed her chair back and raced towards Ron, her sudden movement startling the rest of the family (even though Arthur was struggling to keep his wife back from tying up Charlie and George and locking them in a safe, impenetrable room for an undisclosed length of time).

"Need to steal Ron," Angelina said, grabbing Ron's arm and pulling the startled man up and away while she did so, calling out behind her shoulder at the blinking family. "'bout Quidditch stuff and—whoosh, there we go."

"Oh-kay." Ron glanced from the slamming kitchen door to Angelina. He opened and closed his mouth, still processing that he'd just been dragged from the living room. "We're in here because…? No, wait. I don't give out permits for travelling dragons, nor does Harry. I haven't the faintest what—"

"We haven't asked. I've been biting my lip and stomping on George's foot, because I'm well aware it's best to let you lot get on with business without us nagging you," Angelina kept a steady gaze on him, ignoring his confusion. "But I can't stand it anymore! It's been months and Lottie's a friend. I'm so worried about her and," her quick breath slowed, "please. Please Ron, can you tell me anything about her case? Something real? Something substantial?"

Ron stared at her, again thrown completely off-balanced. Though, if he was honest with himself, he was actually surprised she or George hadn't cracked long before this and demanded to know everything about the case. Merlin knew it wouldn't be the first time friends or family had questioned him about the missing people. As he thought over his answer, he realised that this must've been the tension between Harry and Angelina before dinner. Had she been asking him about the Sweeney kidnappings? It made sense: she knew she wouldn't get anything out of Hermione, while Harry was more willing to break the rules. In the face of both of them refusing she'd come to him: a Senior Auror who'd something of a maverick.

"This is going to sound like I'm blowing you off," Ron said slowly, not wanting to talk about this and not wanting to release any information, "but I really can't tell you much. Not because of some confidentiality thing! We just…most of what we're working off of is guesswork at best."

"Don't give me that," Angelina said, hand on the table and leaning towards him impatiently. "Don't gloss over this. No one's coming out and saying it, but cases are usually marked cold long before this! What's going on?"

"What's going on," Ron somewhat relented, "is that this is a spree. Normally, yeah, we'd have labelled Fawc—Lottie 'missing and presumed dead'. That's because when someone vanishes and there's no reasonable lead within about a month, there isn't much hope. Not that they're necessarily dead, mind you, but the alternatives aren't much better." He let out a low exhale. "But like I said, this is something different. The Sweenies are still taking people and the usual rules don't apply."

She stared at him for a long moment. Her words, when she answered, were soft and shaky. "You think Lottie's dead."

"What? That's not what I—"

"You think they're all dead," Angelina didn't stop. Or couldn't stop. "That we're never going to find them—"

" _Angie!_ " Ron cut in, determined but still with a gentle tone. "I don't think they're all dead, okay? I think…I think the situation's bad, and I really don't want to give you false hope."

She nibbled her lip, eyes narrowing a touch. "You know something else. Something that hasn't been released to the public."

"Course I do, I'm leading the investigation," Ron tried to dismiss. But as she kept staring at him he partly relented. "There's, there's some evidence that Fa—that Lottie was hexed before she was taken. It might've, Merlin. I don't want to tell you exactly what, but she was given a potion or cursed with something that wasn't, err, pleasant."

Angelina gave him a long, stricken look. Her expression had paled, shaking hand still clenched onto the table. "What sort of thing was it? What happened to her?"

"I could only give you my guess, like I said. But you really don't want to know even the scarce details that have come up."

Angelina glared at him, her paleness turning a flush red. "Excuse me? You mean Lottie's in the hands of these criminals and was in pain. Tortured even! And I 'don't want to know what happened'? You have a lot of fucking nerve!"

"Angie, I—"

"Don't 'Angie' me! Fine, you're stuck, I get it. There's no clues and the Aurors can't do bloody well anything to find her. I don't like it, but I understand. But how dare you keep silent! Do you know how much I'd love to even have the closure of knowing she's truly gone? You've been so tight-lipped about this, then you honestly wonder why the press is panicking? It isn't master arithmancy, you daft git! So how about you get your head out of your arse _and tell me something real!_ "

"Don't act like I don't care!" Anger and frustration pushed through Ron's words, the grim reality of the past months catching up with him. "I'm not trying to keep anything secret, except that it's an ongoing investigation. Know what that means? It means that releasing every detail to the papers or the families is a horrible idea! It could let the Sweenies know what we're up to, or it could raise the public into a hysteria! It isn't something I like to do. It's bad enough having to think of what the hell I'll tell their families when real leads do materialise. But I knew some of the victims as well! I cared about them! Parvati and—"

"Knew?"

"What?"

"You just said you 'knew' and 'cared' about them." Angelina's eyes widened and a quiver was in her voice. Her hand slackened, falling off the table. "Oh, oh god. You think they're all dead."

"Don't be stup—"

" _You used the past tense!_ "

"It was just a word! I meant I knew them before the—"

"Past tense!" Angelina's hands were at her mouth, eyes watering. "No, no no no…"

"I don't think they're all dead," Ron said more calmly, kicking himself for upsetting Angelina and for letting his true feelings on the matter slip. "Please don't read into it."

"You think _some_ of them are dead. Or all of them! It doesn't take an Auror to connect the dots!" She turned away, wiping her eyes as she stalked back to the dining room. As Ron heard her greet George's worried tone with a falsely bright voice, he felt about two inches tall. He wondered how much their shouts had echoed in the other room.

* * *

"Look around, look around  
At how lucky we are to be alive right now!  
You will make your mark,  
Close your eyes and dream. We can go!  
When the night gets dark, take a break!"  
—Eliza and Angelica, _Hamilton_

* * *

 **A/N:** Another huge thank you to **cpalmer647** ( **647** ), **Gracie Pearl** , and **sheltie26** (who helped edit this chapter); **Just William** , **Maiden of the Heavens** , and **thefirstservant** (who showed interest in betaing); and **DarkPhoenix** , **Mists** , and **Gambitized** (who gave me wonderful ideas for the story summary). You are all incredibly wonderful and I hope my ridiculous rudeness hasn't ruined this story for you.

Like I wrote at the top, the next chapter should be posted within 24 hours.


	12. A Horntail's Tattoo

**A/N:** This chapter takes place simultaneously with 'A Flock's Feast', going from early October (when Harry reluctantly agreed to give a speech about his mum at the gala) up to the day of Halloween. The main difference is this one involves events from the Potters' points of view. A somewhat fluffy and filler chapter? Absolutely. But it will soon become obvious why it's needed for the story. If it helps, the plot will _rapidly_ escalate in the next few chapters with Halloween and its aftermath.

A final enormous thank you to **cpalmer647** , **Gracie Pearl** , and **sheltie26** (who helped edit the previous chapter); **Just William** , **Maiden of the Heavens** , and **thefirstservant** (who showed interest in betaing); and **DarkPhoenix** , **Mists** , and **Gambitized** (who gave me wonderful ideas for the story summary)!

* * *

"And then she was kissing him as she never had before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair…"

— _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_

* * *

' _You can't imagine how many times I've been asked what that night was like. It's not quite as barmy as it sounds, as I've at least experienced enough Dementors and dark magic to memory it. But still, it's the tone of the questions that gets me: "Do you remember Voldemort that Halloween?" "How did it feel being hit by the killing curse when you were a baby?" "Were you scared after he brutally offed your parents?"_ '

' _It's mainly the heartless questions that get on my nerves. But in all of them, there's always the same awe-struck tone. Awe-struck? What the hell did they think I was up to as a baby? Course, there was once some idiotic Hufflepuffs who thought this was a sign I was a Dark Lord—_ '

* * *

"Fuck. No. Can't swear. Or, y'know, call myself a Dark Lord. 'spect that'd be bad. Alright, scratch that part out. It's rubbish anyway."

* * *

' _What did they think I was up to as a baby? Have none of them picked up a history book? Or, I suppose, they've looked at the wrong ones. I haven't read the recent stuff myself, but some of my brothers-in-law delight in it. I figured they owed me for all the ribbing over the years, so instead of scouring the nonsense books myself I asked them what I thought was an innocent question: did these authors get anything right about my parents?_ '

' _Let me tell you, I have never seen George Weasley go speechless that quickly. Or at all, actually. It's a sight to behold. But there he was, stammering awkwardly as I stared at him. See, no one had bothered to tell me that this was a sore topic. Apparently, everyone had just assumed that I knew. Nobody dared mention it in case I blew up at the 'reminder' that my mum's bravery and sacrifice had been excluded from the history books._ '

* * *

"Err, probably not good to seem trigger-happy. Not that it isn't justifiable in this case, obviously, but…yeah, not a good idea."

Harry scrunched his nose, writing another sentence or two before stopping. He could hear the Auror offices behind his door, taking a small amount of relief that no explosions were going off. It wouldn't have shocked him: the new security measures they were trying to implement had some interesting consequences. Still, the pyro-happy Aurors assured him they'd be ready for the Ministry gala. Which was something, he supposed. So long as the MLE was in one piece at the end of it.

His desk was messy (per usual), filled with ongoing case files, trainee reports, and back-and-forth communication with the hit-wizard office. At the moment, however, his attention was on a lone piece of paper covered in scribbles and blotted out words. He frowned at the rough draft he just couldn't get right. Scratching out the last sentence he'd written, he dropped his head to his hands.

"A speech about my mum for an inane gala," Harry said to the empty room, words mumbled and muffled. "I'm going to kill Ron. I really am."

' _You're really not,_ ' his ever-helpful inner voice chimed in. The wizard wondered when his conscience had begun to sound like Hermione. ' _You still feel guilty about the acromantula! He knows full well you won't do a thing to him._ '

Head still on the desk, Harry scribbled out another sentence, biro sharp and piercing the paper. He'd been using quill and parchment at first, but he'd switched once he realised how many drafts were ending up in the bin.

His inner monologue was true enough: he didn't have any plans to get back at Ron. He was honestly close to getting Hermione to set up another 'confrontation', just to force a truce. She'd likely go for it, wanting some peace and quiet herself. But Ron wouldn't see reason. Maybe he should draw someone else in? Go for Bill, perhaps, and have him pull his 'big brother act' to at least make Ron listen?

"I like my bloody job!" Harry glimmered to the (thankfully) still empty room. "Anyway, it's not Ron's business. He's a prat who hates changes, that's it. Has no bleeding clue of what's appropriate. Bringing my parents into this—seriously, how dare he? Why would he even do that!"

' _Because he knew it would work. And because, you know, you sort of set a giant spider on him._ ' Cue Ginny's voice. Harry worried about the mental state of his conscience. ' _You're going to the gala and giving a speech, aren't you? Ron knows exactly how to get under your skin. For Circe's sake, you're considering apologising to him to make this silly thing stop! Do you realise how ridiculous that is?_ '

Yes. Yes, he did. That didn't mean he had the faintest idea of what to do. He didn't know what was wrong with Ron these days. One would think they'd have enough to deal with, what with the crimes sprees and the press raising mass hysteria about non-existent cannibalism. Why Ron kept harping on about the promotion was beyond him.

'Could be a distraction,' Harry admitted, falling silent. 'Also, not like I made it easier with McLaggen. But that isn't the point!'

He wished that the most stressful thing in his life was his children's accidental magic or Ginny's pregnancy mood swings. Was that too much to ask? One quiet day with his family. Where no one was getting kidnapped or murdered, no Aurors (or politicians) were being childish prats, and where Ginny wasn't on the verge of hexing her boss.

Harry growled into his hand, rethinking some life choices (not for the first time). He wished being an Auror didn't feel so fulfilling. Because he loved helping people and being able to work through and solve cases, he did. It was the rest of the job he sometimes couldn't stand. He imagined waltzing up to Shacklebolt and handing him his resignation (would serve the man right for all the memorial nonsense). Surely McGonagall couldn't turn him down as a DADA instructor? Or he could be a teacher at the Auror Academy? Being a stay-at-home dad had a nice ring to it!

Or, even better. He and Ginny could toss their jobs out the window and embrace the fact that they had more money than they knew what to do with. Sure, Hermione and Shacklebolt would raise a fuss, and the _Prophet_ would be seeing red over Ginny's broken contract. But it'd be brilliant to throw their responsibilities to the wind and do whatever the hell they wanted to.

Harry pictured this for a long moment, gaze not really on his blotted speech. They'd hold off traveling or any such thing until after the pregnancy, but that was still peachy. Lazying about, playing Quidditch, playing with the kids, 'playing' with Ginny…right perfect. He'd stop having to skip poker night with his mates, would get more time to catch up with friends, and everything would be grand.

He snorted at the last, shaking his head. He'd be bored stiff within months, he and Ginny both. A vacation here and there was fine, but he could barely imagine 'lazying around'. As awful as parts of his job could be, he'd take it over a meaningless existence any day.

Which was good enough, but didn't help his current predicament. Which was coming up with a speech about Lily Potter.

Harry refocused his gaze down at the page, nibbling his lip. He considered asking Hermione for help, then as quickly dismissed it. This wasn't like back at Hogwarts where his homework was an inch short. He should…ask Ginny? That was a thought. But it wasn't something she had experience with.

Neville maybe? Except he'd be busy with the start of term. Susan? Though she was surely swamped with cases. What about—

"Oh, obviously," Harry shook his head at his slowness, straightening in his seat. His wand was drawn. " _Expecto patronum_. Luna? I know you're busy with the griffin examination—which, really, thanks again for all the help with the Rippers, I know how gruesome all of this is. But I'd really like to chat. Nothing that important, it's not about any of the cases you're consulting on. Just please let me know when you have a moment. Cheers!"

* * *

It was barely ten minutes later when Luna Scamander wafted into Harry's office. Properly wafted, as her long periwinkle skirt hid her feet and flowed over the floor like lapping waves. Unless he was mistaken, her hair was pinned up with a sea urchin. It suited her. It also made her at once look like the epitome of and the opposite of a professional Magizoologist.

Despite the situation and his own bad mood, Harry couldn't help but grin. Luna tended to have this effect on people. Neville had once suggested that she was like a beam of sunshine. Ron thought it was like being hit with a dozen cheering charms. Seamus, ever eloquent, felt that her presence was like an acid trip after a line of coke (he'd nonchalantly reshuffled to start a new round of poker after dropping this particular line, ignoring Ron's snort, Dean's headdesk, Neville's groan, and Harry's moan that he shouldn't one of his idiotic friends know what 'plausible deniability' meant?).

Ginny thought that Luna was like a crowd of happily buzzing Wrackspurts. Hermione had immediately protested this comparison, arguing that she couldn't use an invention of Luna's to describe Luna, as this was a circular and redundant description (to which Ginny replied that this was rather the point).

As far as Harry was concerned, he'd always thought chatting with Luna was like being under the imperius curse. Not in a bad way. In a, 'floating-on-a-cloud-where-you-aren't-sure-which-way's-up' kind of way. Whatever the case, she always seemed able to clear things up for him. He wasn't sure how, but it worked.

"Hey Luna," he said as she sat down, sending him a light smile, "hope this isn't a bad time?"

"Oh no, it's fine." Luna squinted at something behind him, tilting her head. "I was glad for a break: examining that poor griffin was so sad. He was a life cut off far too soon. Harry? Why is your window smudged like that?"

Harry turned to follow her gaze, only to flush at the sight. An image came to mind: Ginny pressed against the window, her feet wrapped around his legs, their breath moaning against the glass. Neither minded skipping their lunch breaks for this. "Uh, I—"

"Pan Syndrome." Luna took this in stride. "It looks very much like a lost shadow. Oh, I'd be careful with that. Many odd things are reported when a shadow is wavering around. Best to sew it right back up!"

Harry cleared his throat, turning back to his friend. "Thanks Luna. I think I just need to clean the window but, ah, what odd things?"

"Nothing that bad. It's harmless, mainly, though mischievous," she hummed. "A lost shadow can invoke feelings of immaturity and childishness. A want to stay young. The main symptoms are heightened sexual desire and prowess, and it often flares up at pivotal transition points in one's life."

Harry coughed, forcing himself to meet Luna's pleasant gaze. For all his training on sensing lies, he hadn't the foggiest if she was having him on. "I see. Ah, I'll take care of that." Another cough. "I wanted to ask you about something else. I have to give a speech, you see. On my mum. It's…" he struggled for the right words. Then gave up and let it out. "I've written up seven drafts. Seven! All rubbish. Gibberish, more like. It's supposed to be about the end of the first war against Voldemort, so it should be simple. But nothing's working!"

Empathy filled Luna's stare. "This is the Halloween predicament everyone is buzzing about, isn't it. You don't know how to talk about your mother?"

He stopped short at her bluntness. Though it was a bit like a breath of fresh air after all the bureaucratic waffling he had to deal with. Also, at least she got the heart of the problem. "I…sort of. Yeah. That's about right."

"The speech isn't about both of your parents?"

A blink. "It, I mean, it could be. But it didn't seem—it's because—" it's because it was bloody well hard enough to find the words for one parent, "—it didn't seem appropriate. Ripley, the bloke organising this charade, is all about 'directness'. So I thought I'd focus on my mum."

"I see." A small smile. He fidgeted, feeling like she saw right through his excuse. "I'm a rather awful person to ask about this, I'm afraid."

"Doubt that. Things you say always seem to make sense." Harry paused, only then remembering the obvious. Remembered the mother in a grave and the father who had never recovered from the dementors. What made Luna the perfect person to talk to also made her the worst. "Shoot, I'm so sorry! If you aren't comfortable with this topic, believe me I understand—"

"Oh no, it's fine," Luna mused, as serene as ever, not seeming to mind Harry's sudden apology. "I meant that I know very little about mums. Certainly less than you do." There was a touch of something in her voice, of ringing anticipation.

Harry opened his mouth to refute this, before the image of Molly Weasley's bear hugs came to mind. Or Ginny murmuring soft lullabies to their sons. Or any of his sisters-in-law or friends with children, and their exasperated huffs about their mad kids. He closed his mouth.

"Exactly," she nodded, delighted at his clear train of thought. "See? You know quite a lot about mothers. Which solves your problem, I believe."

Harry was unsure if she'd just given him an epiphany, or if he was even more confused than when he'd begun.

Luna took pity on him. "I don't think you want your speech to be about the war, or you would surely already be done with it. You're having problems writing about your mother, since you never knew her. But you know about mums. Write about them."

"I can't just…" Harry trailed off, not knowing where to go.

"Plenty of things to choose from," she continued lightly. "A mother's love, her bravery, a parent's irrational need to protect their child? Love transcending death. I rather thought you were an expert on this topic."

Harry again cleared his throat, finding it swollen and scratchy. "Doesn't make it easy to talk about."

Luna gave a slight frown, tilting her head to the side. "To be honest, I don't see why you can't understand your mother."

"Uh, why?"

"I don't understand mine, as I can't imagine risking leaving my child just to experiment with dangerous spells. But your mum?" Luna sent him a long stare. "Would you take a lethal curse for your sons? Would you protect them without hesitation, even if all hope was lost?"

Yes. Yes, he absolutely would. The answer shone on his face.

Luna gave a satisfied nod. "Then I think you understand your mother quite well. The rest of this speech is, I imagine, only frivolous details." The tiniest of pauses, both contemplating the past. "Harry? There are things worth dwelling on in life. Worrying about this isn't one of them."

He wished he could believe her. Still, while he wasn't that much farther on in figuring out the speech, he did feel a bit better.

"Thanks. Really, thank you." Harry opened his mouth to say something else, but what came out was: "When's your move to Athens, by the way? It's been ages since you've been over for dinner. I know Ginny wants to see you. Think you and Rolf could cram us in before you leave?"

"Oh Harry, that won't be a problem!" Luna laughed, more cheerful than she had been a moment before. "The trip's been cancelled. We'll still be in Britain for at least the next year."

Harry frowned, knowing she'd been looking forward to it. "I hope it isn't because of the Ripper case. It's great of you to consult, but it—"

"No no, nothing to do with that." The tiniest bit of colour filled Luna's cheeks. Harry was taken aback, he couldn't remember ever seeing the woman look sheepish or embarrassed (albeit delighted). "Apparently there really is something in the water. I, that is, I'm ah…"

"Luna?" He looked at her in concern, having never heard her stumbling before.

"Twins!" She blurted out, now thoroughly blushing but with a bright beam. "I'm a, yes." She coughed, still off-balanced. "I suppose I will know more about mothers soon? So, yes. Rolf and I thought we'd stay put during the pregnancy. We know rather little about parenting but we, we thought it best to stay in Britain for a time?"

There was a heartbeat of silence, before Harry laughed and jumped from his chair, pulling his old friend into a hug. "Luna, that's brilliant! Congratulations. I didn't realise you were trying for kids!"

"Oh, we weren't." The blush was thoroughly back, though Luna happily returned the embrace.

"Sorry, shouldn't have asked that. I mean—twins! That's fantastic." Harry, instead of returning to his chair, sat on the desk (that is, the piled papers and folders). "You two have to come to dinner now. Does Ginny know? Have you told many people yet?"

Though Luna's flush was starting to diminish, pink still tickled her cheeks. "Not exactly. In fact, this just slipped out. We weren't planning on telling anyone until after all the silliness on Halloween."

Harry halted, the implication hitting him. He gave a small swallow, resisting the urge to give her another hug ('Too much time spent around the Weasleys,' he mused). "Right, of course. I absolutely understand. How about dinner 1st November, would that work?"

"That would be lovely." Luna was standing up, looking cheerful but uncertain. "I'm sorry for, ah, springing that on you," she hurried on before he could protest, "but I really should be going. Good luck on your speech."

She turned quickly, heading to the door. Harry stared for a beat, caught by surprise at the suddenness of the news and her running off. But he spoke up right before she got to the exit. "No wait, Luna?"

"Yes?" She turned back to him.

"I know you didn't mean to tell me, but I can't begin to say how thrilled I am for you and Rolf." He gave her a soft smile, trying to think of the right words to express this before she left. "Don't listen to the Wrackspurts, okay? You're going to be an absolutely brilliant mum."

Luna gave Harry the most delighted beam he'd ever seen. He realised Neville had a point: she was rather like a ray of sunshine.

* * *

"We have to talk." Ron stormed into the office, slamming the door. Harry looked up from his files, having just gotten back to his work after breaking up a duel in the hallway over which Junior Auror had messed up labelling a series of evidence bags. His ears had only just stopped twitching from an awry hex and he was in no mood for one of Ron's rants.

"Should I ask where McLaggen is?" Harry said, putting the papers aside. He hoped that Ron was here because he'd seen sense and wanted a truce. He figured he could dream.

"Who cares?" Ron instead answered, swinging into a seat. Harry, though mildly annoyed, let it go (as he basically agreed). "What with the press still on the pie nonsense, why haven't we talked about the bigger picture? For starters, we've got to be more open about the worst-case scenario with the Sweenies."

"That we have a serial killing group rather than a kidnapping group?" Harry's hopes for the conversation hit a rock bottom low. He hoped his plan with Bill panned out. "Not saying you're wrong, but the press is already whispering about a new Dark Lord. We aren't looking for mass hysteria here."

"Hell, that's not even what's most worrying me," Ron said. "The Sweenies are prolific. More than that, they're escalating—recent break aside. If they're behind those red light district disappearances too, they've shifted from high- to low-risk targets. Never a good sign."

"Could be a game to them," Harry took up the strain. "Or practice runs. Seems like classic psychopathy, though. If it was sexual we'd be seeing a pattern with the victims, and if it was trafficking they'd only be picking easy targets. What could they be getting from this? No ransom demands, they aren't contacting us or the media, and they're not displaying the bodies. Seems it's about inciting terror—but, frankly, they'd be better off with a massive attack. Could be the bodies themselves are trophies? Or they're doing something else to them?"

Ron looked queasy at the last. "So, if it is a 'game' and they're upping their risk with each victim: who'd they go after next? Started with prostitutes and orphans. Next was when we caught on with Fawcett, young and a relatively easy target, but was taken in a public space in broad daylight. Then they upped it with Davies, a semi-public figure in a private residence. The only mistake there was they tried out that potion, which they immediately stopped using."

"Then the press really got wind of it and the targets became harder to get," Harry cushioned onto the discussion. They'd hinted at this enough times over the past few weeks, but hadn't properly fleshed it out. "Celebrities, heiresses, and witnesses with plenty of them. Then we had Fudge, vanishing in the Wizengamot! Whoever's behind this, they don't care how many wizards are watching them do it." He scowled, frustration ringing. "If they keep escalating, who the hell will they hit next? High-profile people being actively protected, I suppose. Especially since it's like they want us to panic. So government and economic leaders, who we've already got increased security on."

Another thought had occurred to Ron, one that (from his expression) seemed to have been on his mind for awhile. "What if it's a different sort of challenge? The victims have also been getting more powerful. Physically and magically, that is. The first bunch was at-risk women and children. The next group was neutrally powerful; potentially able to fight back. Now, we're searching for people known to be magically powerful—or, in Fudge's case, protected by a crowd of them. Maybe that's the escalation."

Harry frowned. "Two decent theories. Either way, the current 'most at-risk' group overlaps. It's also small enough that our heightened protections basically cover them—so long as the Sweenies don't revert back to soft targets. So, who do we have? Shacklebolt, the main ambassadors, the magical royals, and the Heads of Departments and much of the Wizengamot. I'd get protection for McGonagall too, if she wouldn't hex us out the door for suggesting it. Who else would—"

"You?" Ron cut in. He stared in mild disbelief as the Head Auror blinked at him. "You know, the Wizarding Saviour who laughs at death?"

"I don't laugh at—" Harry shook his head, catching himself. "I'll grant you I might be a target if the first theory's true. But for the second? My magic's only above average. Doubt that's what they're after."

"Harry," Ron said slowly, as though speaking to a mentally deficient child, "you're the Man Who Conquered. Whoever this group is, they're bound to think you're Merlin incarnate. Assign some guards to yourself! Honestly, I'm shocked there hasn't already been an attempt."

Harry snorted, unconvinced. "Fine, fine. Though between the wards around my home and going to work surrounded by other Aurors—"

"They're targeting powerful and well-known wizards!" Ron interrupted. "Look, I'm mad at you, but apparently I have to save you from your own cluelessness. Get the guards. Then shut up and play nice with them."

Harry stared at Ron, feeling that the redhead was an utter hypocrite to say that after messing with so many partners. "I'm your boss. You do remember that, right? Maybe once in a while when you aren't scheming to make my life even more complicated?"

"Course I do. 's like how you're my oblivious best friend who sets giant spiders on me. Or like how I can go to your boss, and she'll happily order you to get a merry band of bodyguards. An army, more like."

Harry stopped arguing, deciding to pick his battles. He wondered how it was that, even when Ron was being a concerned friend, he still managed to get under his skin. "I already said I'd order some. But the Wizengamot's already been hit, so that's where I want the protections to be focussed. We know there's weak spots, even if we can't pinpoint them exactly."

"Fine, fine."

"Also…not about the Sweenies, but listen. Can we stop this mad back-and-forth? I'm sorry about the acromantula, but you used my parents against me and—"

"Would you look at the time? I'm late for lunch."

"RON, come back here! I'm trying to end this feud and— _damn it_. Yeah, that wasn't childish at all! Just slamming the door behind you: THAT'S REALLY EFFING MATURE, WEASLEY!"

* * *

For the first time in a long while, Ginny woke up naturally. Peacefully, from her internal clock. The boys weren't screaming, Harry wasn't mumbling in his sleep, and her stomach wasn't upset.

She—near luxuriously—kept her eyes closed, remaining in a relaxed sprawl under the blankets. Nuzzling her sleepiness and husband, she'd be perfectly happy to stay as such. So, it was only a rustling beside her that made her eyes crack open.

Ginny couldn't tell if Harry was waking up. She thought not, but he could be like her and was clutching onto the last bit of sleep. If so, she was glad. With the time he'd been having, he needed more rest. She absently considered getting up and starting breakfast. But her arm was pressed under his side and, with a leg caught between both of his, she didn't want to risk waking him by moving.

She shrugged, curling up closer to her husband. She wasn't about to complain about this. Especially since pressing against his bare chest was warming her even more than the blankets. She tried to work out why she was even chilled in the first place. Though it was October and the weather had been cold, the oh-so-wonderful boys in her life liked the house's temperature to be not quite as warm as a sunstroke.

As she poked at Harry's bare torso and took stock of her own undressed state, she chalked up the puzzle as solved. Partly solved. The previous night was hazy in the early morning, so she jogged her memory by process of elimination. Wiggling her limbs one by one, she soon worked out that she still had socks on and…well, she had two socks on. A glance under the sheets showed her that this was more than Harry wore.

Scrunching up her mouth and stretching, Ginny fought away the lingering sleep. Her recall of last night meandered in. She'd had a last minute deadline, so by the time she'd gotten home Harry had picked up the kids from the muggle daycare. He'd also already cooked and burned the beef stroganoff (that is, Jamie's conjured miniature dragon had harshly crisped it) and ordered Indian. The evening was otherwise unspectacular (said dragon having reverted back to a fluffy plush toy with a puff of smoke), where the only 'surprising' thing had happened after they'd put the kids to bed. Only surprising to her, that is, as her husband didn't find anything odd with thinking that his pregnant wife was as sexy as ever.

As far as Ginny was concerned, this proved that Harry sorely needed to get his eyes checked. Never in her life had she felt more like a beached whale. Her first two pregnancies hadn't helped prepare her for this situation, as she'd gained relatively little weight with her boys. So much so that the press hadn't caught wind of either pregnancy until she was well along. Her retirement from the Harpies had been cited 'for personal reasons', and until she was finally showing most of the papers assumed this was code for marital troubles. With Al, she'd even gone to a healer with concerns over her small baby bump, only to be reassured that some mothers' bodies simply didn't change much.

Now? She had this weighty little terror. She was grateful the morning sickness wasn't that bad, and she was more thrilled than pained that her enthusiastic baby was a kicker. But that didn't change how she (as she would frustratedly claim time and again) had been reduced to waddling around the house.

Harry would snort whenever she'd say this. He'd hug her, insist she hadn't gained that much weight, that she was as gorgeous as ever, and that she certainly wasn't 'waddling'. All of this cemented Ginny's closely held belief that she'd married a very sweet but very oblivious man. Because no matter what Harry said, she was peeved that the extra weight made even a simple jog laborious.

Yet, here she lay. Basically starkers. She looked down again at their bodies: focused on her prominent belly she switched to Harry's toned abs, and made a note to start working out with a fury the moment her baby was born.

* * *

"Lily Nymphadora, maybe. It flows off the tongue."

"Hell no."

"Harry!"

"Not even Tonks liked her name!"

"Do you like that, Lily-Bily? Oh yes you do! Feel that? One kick means she likes the name."

"We aren't naming her Lily. Or Nymphadora! Kicking does not mean she agrees!"

* * *

That night, it was Ginny. They rarely woke up to a scream (that hadn't been the norm for years), but the shaking and hiccuped gasps were more than enough to rouse the other. This night, it only took a few minutes to convince her she wasn't in the Chamber. They held each other tight, with his soft murmurs and her wide eyes with grappling fingers. It was only slowly that she relaxed, body easing, her skin sweaty against his. He never paused in his gentle reassurances.

Eventually, the hold relaxed into a loose cuddle. Her breathing was no longer frantic, her gaze sleepy rather than fearful.

"So," Harry said after a pause, "ice cream?"

A shaky nod. "Extra caramel. Thanks, love."

A kiss, a stretch, a stroll to the kitchen, and sharing a 3am dessert between covers.

* * *

Harry had long since accepted that his work desk would always be in a state of disorder. He knew where the important things were, that's what mattered, and keeping track of those only required some basic upkeep. Namely, routine daily sorting of which case files he could close and which still required some work.

The Gravery brother robberies? Check.

Consultant for the Manchester art forgery? Check—forwarded to the hit-wizards as the first reports on the Imperius Curse being used seemed unlikely.

The potion robbery-turned-embezzlement? Check—out of trial, guilty verdicts all around. The sentence is due shortly. No further sign of Lestrange.

Harry took a longer glance at this last folder before setting it aside, considering the lack of progress on the closer focus of the remaining Death Eaters. Not every big case was a bust, of course. It was with a relieved sigh when the folder for the foiled Lisbon bombings had been closed and sent back to Portugal last week. Cases didn't normally end with no civilian fatalities, the remaining terrorist cell in custody, and minimal press coverage, but he was grateful when it did. It was especially rare with plots like this bombing had been (and Merlin knew he didn't want to think about how many times London had come near calamity since 2001).

If only terrorism was his main concern. He almost felt envious of his American counterparts: at least they were fighting an enemy they could see. As it was, he was carefully avoiding looking at two detailed folders on his desk—both of which had laid there as open cases longer than any other.

"Don't look at them, don't look at them, don't look at them," Harry mumbled to himself, knowing there would be no new information. But that hadn't stopped him from turning through the useless pages over and over again in the past months. "You know full well it's a waste of time and, honestly, is sort of becoming an obsession and is absolutely not healthy. Yeah. Something else."

The progress reports on the Junior Aurors? Check—he'd finished looking them over yesterday. Apart from Quirke's inability to stop with her double entendres, they were all training well. Issues with sleuth techniques and maintaining their cover, nothing out of the ordinary.

The extra security for the Wizengamot? In progress—more guards had been stationed since the Fudge debacle with Shacklebolt all-but under house arrest. They were still installing the new 'security cameras': an idea George had made a prototype ages ago that combined the concept of muggle video cameras with a walk-in Penisieve. It hadn't been viewed as high importance until recent events. Dennis Creevey was now heading up getting them set up throughout the Ministry in time for the Halloween Gala.

Harry's personal Operation 'get-the-press-against-Shacklebolt-and-turn-the-election'? On hold—there had always been the issue that there was no decent alternative to the bloke. Fudge out of the picture made it a hint better, but he didn't want to mess with an election made up of write-ins. Particularly as Bill had been joking about starting a grassroots campaign to get people to write in Harry's own name. Harry trusted the Weasleys with his life, but didn't trust them not to pull a stunt like that.

Operation 'get-Hermione-elected-Minister'? Indefinitely on hold—she'd murder him if she found out.

Operation 'get-Percy-elected-Minister'? Negligible—he remained torn if his brother-in-law or Shacklebolt would be a better idea, since he knew Percy would drag him into politics as well.

Operation 'find-out-what-the-eff-Ron's-planning-next'? A complete failure.

Harry looked down at the last one, frowning. He wondered if he could justify ordering a few Aurors to follow the git around.

* * *

"Lillian Molly."

"Marginally better, still not good. Why are you opposed to having Molly be the first name?"

"Because Percy has already taken it. But a middle name's acceptable."

"Just take out Lily! Make it Tonks Molly if you'd like. Tonks Potter isn't that bad."

"Harry, don't be ridiculous."

"I'm the one being ridiculous?"

"That sounds atrocious!"

"FINE! Luna Molly, then. How's that?"

"Not horrid, I'll admit. But it—oh. Oh wait."

"Ginny? I, I don't like the look you've just got…"

"LILY LUNA! It's PERFECT!"

"…hell no."

"My little Lily Luna! How cute is that? Absolutely precious!"

"No."

"It's adorable."

"Not happening, don't even think about it. I'm vetoing."

"Pfft, like you can veto."

"I'm the dad!"

"I'm pregnant!"

"It's a namesake after _my_ mum!"

"Who you clearly have lingering issues with, so I'm making the executive decision."

"That's not even a thing!"

* * *

"Ga goo. _Ga goo!_ " Ginny clapped her hands over and away from her eyes, beaming as her son giggled. "GA GOO!"

"GAH GAH!" Al gurgled right back, trying to jump about in his bright pumpkin costume.

"You adorable babbbyyy!" his mum happily chimed. With a small huff she lifted her squirming child, sitting back as he clamoured against her baby bump. " _Umph_. This can't all be from the watermelon. What's your daddy been feeding you?"

"DADA!"

"That's right!" she said brightly, wiggling his nose with her own. Hearing a soft noise from the doorway she didn't bother to look, assuming it was Harry coming back from putting Jamie down for a nap. "My liddle widdle brilliant baby. Yes you are, yes you are! My genius baby with a watermelon belly! Do you have a melon belly? I think you do, I think you do!"

Al giggled and squirmed about as his mum delightedly tickled his stomach.

"MY LITTLE WATERMELON BABY!"

"…so, I'm not asking about this." George chimed in from where he had been lounging at the kitchen doorway, peering at the two surrounded by watermelon slices. Ginny gave a small shriek and leaped around, instinctively holding her giggly baby behind her. "Hello to you too. Was wondering if you wanted to make a bet on the upcoming Puddlemere—"

" _Why do you lot keep breaking into my house!_ "

"It's not breaking in if I have a key and open access to your floo," George rolled his eyes. "I'm insulted you think I'm not well-versed in trespassing laws. With that being said, if you need lock picking tips…"

"OUT!"

* * *

"All I'm saying," Ginny said, "is that we're long overdue a vacation. Picture it: sunny days and gorgeous beaches. Getting far away from paparazzi and m-u-r-d-e-r-s."

"Spelling things out doesn't work." Harry had finally gotten his son to latch onto the milk bottle. "Good Albie! Are you forgetting when Jamie wouldn't stop spelling out you-know-what? Did it right in the middle of dinner at the Burrow, too. Your brothers were looking at me shiftily for a month!"

"Like they don't use methods to hide their 'bedroom activities' from their kids," Ginny dismissed. "So what if Jamie latched onto s-e-"

" _Don't!_ " Harry yelped, covering Albus' ears. Ginny blinked at this, blinked at her son (who continued drinking his milk and ignoring them), blinked at her husband, and let out a snort.

* * *

"An' then Vicky wanted to play with the gnomes. Told her that was stupid, but she wouldn't—"

"Don't tell people they're stupid, it's not nice," Harry said absently, shifting his gaze every so often between his blotted out speech and Teddy's squiggling over his sums. "Especially not your best friend."

"Yeah yeah," Teddy whirled his pen around. Sitting atop of the desk in his godfather's study, he'd put on his normal attire: bright green eyes and even brighter, fire engine red hair. The Weasleys had, sighingly, stopped bothering to protest the colour years ago: as Teddy insisted that he was always right when it came to colour, and that his inflamed hair was the _exact shade_ of his practically-adopted-relatives'. "Though she's icky—alright! But she _was_ stupid. Saying stuff 'bout how gnome spit was good for her. Said Auntie Luna had told her! Like she'd say that."

Harry paused in scratching out another sentence. He didn't know why, but that rang a bell. "I don't know what your Aunt Luna said. But I'm sure she didn't mean for you to get too close to gnomes. They can be dangerous." Teddy also looked up from his paper, sending Harry a, 'Really?' look. The wizard backtracked. "Not that dangerous. More of a household menace. But still, it's the principle of the thing."

"…Gran Weasley has us chuck them over the hedge?"

"Well, yes. That's, that's chores." Harry struggled (once again) with the line between 'rational parent' and 'overprotective madman'. He'd accepted that this was something that would only get worse with time. "I mean you should, err, stay away from their teeth. Nasty things, those."

Teddy stared at him before shrugging and returning to ignoring his maths for doodling. It was clear he stored this away as yet another weird thing his goddad said which had an amazing story behind it (much like his refusal to store Cornish Pixies or Blast-Ended Skrewts in his home—both of which came up a surprising amount). "Anyway, Vicky wanted to play hopscotch with them."

Harry snorted before catching himself. "I'm sure that went over well. But Teddy, no drawing until all your homework is done."

"I'm doing the problems!"

"You're clearly doodling a shark chomping a cookie—look, finish it all up before your Gran gets here tonight and I'll sneak you some chocolate before dinner. We have a deal?" Harry made a mental note not to mention this to anyone. His idea of effective parenting was viewed by many of his relatives as spoiling ("And turning our kids against us!" Bill had grumbled on one notable occasion, when his children had babbled happily to their 'favourite Uncle' for a full hour before acknowledging their dad's existence. "Underhanded, mate."

"Not my fault I'm lovable," Harry had cheeked back, before returning to breaking up an argument between the tutued but pouting Roxanne and Dominique over who was the prima donna).

The eight year old instantly brightened at the mention of illicit chocolate, returning to the maths work with a fury. Still, he continued his story as though there hadn't been an interruption. "Like the gnomes want to hop around! Didn't even get what she was saying at first. But when they did they were so grumpy. Like, sssooo grumpy! Humphed around and grunted. Thought one was 'bout to bite her! Course Vicky, being mental—"

"Don't call her mental."

"—being _perfectly normal_ , was crazy happy 'bout it." Teddy looked up at Harry, face aghast. "Why's she mental?"

"She's not mental," Harry said calmly, "and you shouldn't use words like that. Vicky likes racing about, you know that. You're always having fun with her."

"I know," Teddy rolled his eyes at his godfather's slowness. "But other times she's so weird! Likes poking me. Likes poking gnomes! Who likes poking gnomes?!"

Harry turned back to the speech with a smile. "Reckon the same sort who like to tickle dragons."

Teddy paused before groaning. "No, 'cause that'd be awesome. But why gnomes!"

* * *

That night, it was Harry. Instead of hiccuping gasps, his body shook as he spoke in his sleep. Sometimes it was coherent, tonight it was nonsense, but always it was in a pitch of panic.

He was a lighter sleeper than Ginny. Easier to rouse. Almost always, barely after he was jolted awake he'd protest that he was fine and was sorry for waking her. She had long since stopped arguing with him, having found it was better to wrap her body around his until the shaking had lessened. Instead of reassuring him that it was only a nightmare, she repeated over and over again that she loved him.

On the nights when his voice sounded like a child's and he mumbled about a cupboard, her murmurs shifted to convincing him he wasn't alone.

Whatever the case, it always ended with ice cream in bed. Double chocolate for him, strawberry and caramel for her. More than a few mornings they'd blearily wake to find they'd fallen back asleep and the sheets were smeared with melted dessert. Neither minded.

* * *

"Lily Luna."

"No."

"Lily-bily. Lily-flower. Lily-bo-billy-fi-filly!"

"No."

"Do you hear me, Lily? See how pretty your name is? My little Lily baby!"

"Stop calling her that!"

"I can call my belly bump whatever I want, thank you very much."

"I'm pretty sure I have a say in this!"

"Do you want her to be named Nymphadora Hermione? Because I will call her Nymphadora Hermione. Or Muriel Dolores, how does that sound?"

"BETTER THAN LILY!"

"You have to acknowledge your mother issues."

"I don't have mother issues!"

"Of course you do. You're driving yourself barmy over this speech, you're refusing to accept the perfect name for our daughter, and don't think I haven't noticed you're skipping your visit to Godric's Hollow this year."

"Nothing's weird about the last. It's always been morbid, s'not bad I'm skipping it."

"You've visited your parents' graves on Halloween every year since the war! This means something, Harry. I don't know if it's the stress of the baby, the crime sprees, or the anniversary…"

"No, it's simple. I don't want our daughter to have a namesake from my side of the family! It's macabre and—more importantly—your brothers will kill me for supposed name-hogging."

"And you're making excuses."

"I'm not making excuses!"

"Mummy issues."

"Jesus Christ, Gin. I'm fine!"

"Sure you are. But a vacation and a touch of therapy would do you wonders."

" _We aren't calling her Lily!_ "

* * *

Ginny had to give it to Harry: playing with a toddler swinging from one's neck while reading barely legible notes was pretty impressive. Especially as Jamie had long since 'stolen' his father's spectacles. Harry didn't seem to mind that his glasses' metal legs were being slobbered on, nor did he let the loss of glasses keep him from scanning the pages (while frequently breaking away to tickle his son and make sure he wasn't swallowing the frames).

Her thoughts caught up to her. Adjusting Al in her arms, she took a closer look at her squinting husband. "Are you only pretending to read that? No offence, but your eyesight's horrid."

"Near-sighted," Harry reminded her absently, scanning the pages. At his wife's answering silence he glanced up, squinted, and realised her confusion. "Anything near me is clear enough. It's only the far away stuff that's blurry."

"I know that, silly. It's just," Ginny crossed her eyes, frowning as she tried to blur her vision, "hard to imagine. Is it like looking at an out-of-focus photo, where people are coloured blobs jumping and waving about?"

"Pretty much." Harry shifted the swinging Jamie so that his son's monkey-hold wasn't as strangling.

She considered this for another moment before her attention shifted back to the notes he'd been reading. Though she was fairly apt at translating her husband's chicken sprawl, the words seemed even more rushed and in bullet-pointed shorthand than usual. Which was odd, as she could have sworn there'd been a nice copy of his speech that he'd been looking over the other day. "Those notes. Should I ask how many drafts you've tossed out?"

"Too many." Harry returned to reading over the pages. "Nothing seems right. Everything's either too personal or too historical."

"I understand it being too personal," Ginny said, also frowning, "but too historical? You might be overthinking things. If the speech is about the end of the First War, it's kind of a big thing. You can't avoid it being at least somewhat historical."

"Doesn't mean I want to talk about it," he let out a low exhale. "The stupidest thing. I'm going to kill Ron, I really am. You know everyone that'll be there, this whole gala? It's to celebrate the end of that war. They're celebrating what happened!"

With his words it all clicked into place, neatly dispersing any confusion. She bit her lip, not aware that she held her son closer to her chest. "Why don't you explain that? That, yes, Voldemort was weakened, and yes, it's a good thing society had peace for eleven years. But it doesn't make what happened any less tragic. You lost your family. There's no glossing over that."

"Yeah, that's what I wrote it the second and third drafts." Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Then tossed those in the bin. Too bloody personal, remember?"

"I don't think you can get away from it being personal," Ginny thought this over. "It is about your mum, after all. Why do you even need a speech? You could go up there and say what you feel. I know that's easier said than done, but still."

"What, say that I never knew the woman?" he asked, equal amounts sarcastic and worried. "Talk about how she's some great heroine? Relate the handful of things I've learned about her over the years?"

"Say that…" Ginny's voice trailed off. The problem was, if she was giving this speech she knew exactly what she'd say. She'd thank Lily Potter from the bottom of her heart. She'd say that this witch's bravery is the reason she's able to curl up with her husband at night. That she felt guilty for not visiting their graves more often, but hoped they would have liked her as a daughter-in-law. That she wanted her baby to be named after her absent grandmum. "You could say that you never knew her, but wish you did. Or you could say that your wife is eternally grateful to her and that, as I'm always right, Lily Potter was clearly a spectacular woman. Or, if you want to keep it simple? Say that you can play with your kids in a peaceful world all because of her."

Harry didn't answer for a long moment. "Maybe you ought to be giving this speech."

"I think it's good for you," Ginny replied. "Though there's no need to worry, this can be as short and sweet as you like. Say whatever you want and bollocks what anyone else thinks! She's your mum. She's not some historic, abstract person. But still, you're an orphan. No one's expecting you to have tales about growing up with her. Love, there's no wrong answer to this."

* * *

This night, it was Jamie.

A fevered shriek echoed through the house, causing both parents to jump out of sleep and grab their wands (Harry's from the headrest, Ginny's from the crevice between mattress and bed). After a moment of blinking, wands were tiredly tossed to the bedside tables. The two exchanged a long glance. Their silent argument was punctured with a second howl: Jamie's cry had woken his brother.

Harry sighed and sleepily ruffled for his boxers. Wearing knickers already, Ginny didn't bother with a top and—with a wide yawn—sauntered to Al's room. The man gave a bare thought to how they were getting damn good at this (trigger-happy instincts aside) as he tugged on some trousers and hurried to his son.

Jamie had stopping shouting by the time Harry had made it into the room, but the little boy was sniffling with blankets pulled over his head. In no time at all the child was being cuddled by his father who—through the hiccoughs—came to understand that a horde of ravenous hippogriffs was hiding under the bed.

Harry pulled him tighter, cooing softly to calm him. Voice little more than a whisper, he told the gulping child that he was an expert hippogriff wrangler and would have them out in no time. After the sniffling had diminished, the wizard scouted under the bed and shooed off the critters with cries of, ' _Hocus Pocus!_ ', ' _Flibberty Gibbet!_ ', and ' _Hungry Hungry Hippogriffs!_ '.

Soon enough, Jamie was laughing and the bedroom was once again free of magical creatures. With a kiss on his forehead, Harry tucked his giggling son back under the covers. Pulling up a rocking chair, he assured Jamie that he wasn't going anywhere until the boy was fast asleep. After all, it wouldn't do to have the hippogriffs sneak back in.

* * *

"All I'm saying is you might have lingering issues over your parents."

"This has nothing to do with that."

"So you admit you have issues?"

"That's not what I meant! I'm well-adjusted, alright? I just don't like the name Lily."

"No, it's that you don't want her to be named after your mum."

"Is that so bad? I'm tired of namesakes. Either we pick one from your family or, hey, how about we pick a brand-new name. There's a thought! One with no baggage involved. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"Sure. If you weren't avoiding the issue."

"There is no issue! There's no problem! I don't like to dwell on my dead parents, how is that strange or unhealthy?"

"Because you're being defensive. It's like how Fred's name was taboo for ages. This silly speech shows it! You hate talking about your past."

"Oh, and in my shoes you'd like it?"

"No, but I hope I'd acknowledge when I needed help. Don't tut at me like that! You don't want to drag up the Dursleys? Fine, never tell me what those monsters did to you."

"Because they _didn't_ do anything to—"

"But you never mourned your parents. That's a damn big thing to have lurking in the back of your head."

"I, what? Of course I've grieved."

"You've never looked them up! You've never researched them. You occasionally visit their graves, but you never mention your parents to our kids."

"Because there isn't anything to research or tell."

"Your mum's journal you found in her vault? The one you wouldn't touch but was fine with me reading? Or your family's homes which you've barely set foot in? The ones with portraits of your ancestors, who I've had quite a few conversations with over the years. Also, who kept fleeing the room whenever Sirius and Remus talked about his parents back at Grimmauld Place?"

"That…that isn't fair."

"You're right, it isn't. I'm being cruel and horrible. But I hate that I know more about Lily and James Potter than you do! Sweetie, that's why I wasn't against you giving this speech: I thought it'd do you some good."

"Ginny, stop this."

"I want to name my daughter after a woman I greatly admire. I've yet to hear you make one decent argument against it!"

"We aren't calling her Lily."

"Don't be such a stubborn—"

"Would you stop! Alright, FINE! I don't give a damn if your brothers think I'm name-hogging and, yeah, the name itself is beautiful. I admit it! Are you happy? But we aren't calling her Lily. You can pick anything else, I don't care. You want Harriet Merlin Potter? Great! You want five middle names? Fantastic! You want to hyphenate some constellations and splotch them in there? Wonderful. But Lily is off-limits. You don't know how much I regret James' name, like I've cursed him with something. Albus' isn't much better. I'm not doing the same to our daughter!"

"Harry…"

"I'm, I have to go. Someone came into my office. I'll see you later."

"Harry, don't hang u—"

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"No it's, it's my fault. I shouldn't have cut you off like that. No one actually came into my office."

"Heh, yeah. I guessed as much. But I was the one pushing and I don't want to go to bed angry. Jamie was giving us odd looks all through dinner."

"Too perceptive by half, that one. Though…you're right. I hate fighting."

"Let's shut up about the name. The bugger isn't due until December, plenty of time to hatch out a compromise."

"I guess…"

"Right. A compromise isn't possible, is it."

"Not really."

"Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"If it bothers you that much, okay. We won't name her Lily."

"Gin, thank you."

"Anyway, I still like the sound of Nymphadora…"

"How about Nymph? Not as many letters."

"That doesn't have the same sound to it!"

"That's sort of my point. Hey, how about Ginevra?"

"Don't you dare."

"Little Ginevra Muriel Potter!"

"Harry! Don't joke about— _mmph_. …oh no, nope. You can't shut me up with a kiss!"

"Hah, sure I can't."

* * *

Ginny was at the mirror, earrings dangling, glaring at her hair.

"Crown braid," she muttered to herself, flicking a loose strand. "Crown braid, Fleur said. 'Formally elegant', she said. Could've warned me it'd look like a beehive! But oh no, 'trés magnifique', she insisted." The woman huffed, examining the updo that (even after three attempts) was messier than she'd been after. "Don't know why I bother with the bloody—"

"You look beautiful."

Ginny turned at the voice, an incredulous gaze in her eyes. Harry stepped into the room with a soft smile.

"Don't stare at me like that, you do." Arms wrapped around her silk red dress, his shirt brushing against her thin necklace.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," she said, putting the mirror aside for her husband. "Though, my my, Mr. Potter. You're looking handsome."

Like her, he'd went for muggle clothes rather than formal wizarding attire. She mused that it likely wasn't meant to be a statement. He surely hadn't thought anything of the formfitting green shirt or of the tailored black trousers and jacket, other then that they were comfortable. But she could picture the _Witch Weekly_ article tomorrow: Harry's picture front and centre with an accompanying story of how a boyish, casual style was back in fashion.

"Very handsome," Ginny amended, straightening his collar. "Nice and informal. I like it."

"Well, here's the thing." Harry gave her a sheepish grin. "When I was getting ready I had a fantastic idea."

She waited. Nothing else seemed to be coming. "Yes?" she prodded. Then had to wait a few more seconds.

"Let's not go," he abruptly broke the pause, gathering her closer to him. His hair tickled. "It's a stupid gala and a ridiculous memorial. To hell with Shacklebolt! Do you honestly want to spend an evening dealing with paparazzi and politicians?"

No. Nope, she had no desire to dive through camera flashes and fend off socialites. She sorely wanted to stave off the event with Harry. But…she let out a sigh, breath brushing his cheek. "We can't."

"Let's stay in tonight," Harry repeated, voice low and oh-so-tempting. "Drop the boys off, blow off the gala, and disconnect the floo."

"Sounds heavenly." Ginny returned a soft kiss before pulling away. "I'm still going. I've already stuffed myself into this dress!"

"Which you look lovely in," he murmured against her hair, not relenting. "Though it'd be easy to take off…"

"Two sewing charms, three refitting spells, and another sewing charm once I was in." She sent him an unimpressed look. "I'm quite literally sewn into this dress."

"One little cutting charm?"

"Missing the point." Ginny gave a small groan. "It's a near miracle I'm not bursting out of this!"

"You're beautiful." Harry pulled her back into a hug. "You're always gorgeous and you're not 'stuffed into' or 'bursting out of' anything. But, like I said? As much as I love you in this dress, I'd prefer you out of it."

"Fine then. I'll waltz into the Ministry starkers."

"Or we forget about the Ministry," he wasn't to be dissuaded. "Spend the night relaxing. No kids, no owls, no deadlines, no floos, and no speeches. No one bothering us."

"Ripley would kill you. As would Kingsley."

"I'll remind them what happened to Voldemort." Harry was wholly unconcerned. "Neither of us want to go, so let's skip it. Why not? The boys are going trick-or-treating with George and Angelina, and everyone else has plans. It'll be just you and me. When has that last happened?"

She considered this for a long pause. Even with the trouble it would cause, it sounded blissful. "I could use a pregnancy excuse. Sickness, nausea, what have you."

"Or I'll play the fame card." He smiled to her deadpan look. "About time the celebrity nonsense came in handy. If it can get me an evening alone with you…?"

"Men," Ginny humphed with a small grin, pointing at her stomach. "Why would you want to shag while—"

"You're gorgeous," Harry cut in. Then kissed her to halt further protest. Pulling back after a time, he continued as though there'd been no interruption. "Belly bump and all. If you ask me, it makes you even sexier."

"You're mental." Ginny rolled her eyes, yet couldn't stop smiling. "Very sweet, but mad."

"Handsome. Don't forget handsome." He scrunched her hair up, fingering the loose braid and bun. His other hand played with the top of her strapless dress.

" _Humble, too,_ " she breathed into his ear, the tightly secured dress sliding down her form. "Don't think this gets you out of the gala. You've stressed so much about that speech and Kingsley really would be upset."

"Hm mmm." Harry clearly couldn't care less.

"It will get you there fashionably late, at most."

"Hmmm…"

"I'm serious, Harry, we shouldn't just… _ohh._ "

* * *

"The fact that Harry Potter was going out with Ginny Weasley seemed to interest a great number of people, most of them girls. Yet Harry found himself newly and happily impervious to gossip over the next few weeks. After all, it made a very nice change to be talked about because of something that was making him happier than he could remember being for a very long time, rather than because he had been involved in horrific scenes of Dark Magic."  
— _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_


	13. A Boggart's Closet

**A/N:** It's time for Halloween and the 13th chapter! Clearly not a bad omen.

* * *

"I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory,  
When's it gonna get me? In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me?  
If I see it comin', do I run or do I let it be?  
Is it like a beat without a melody?"  
—Alexander Hamilton, _Hamilton_

* * *

Hermione was sparkling. Quite literally. She was lovely but, frankly, Ron wasn't sure what to stare at.

"Hey," he began, fiddling with the tie he already knew was going to be left at home, "Hermione? You're gorgeous and brilliant. But, that is, do you think you have enough rhinestones?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," Hermione deadpanned, looking at the mirror as she put on earrings and patted her hair. "Besides, this is a designer gown. So it's a touch avant-garde."

"A touch? That dress could blind someone! What with all the sparkly, reflective gem things. Do you want to blind someone, Hermione? Do you?"

She, quite wisely, ignored him.

"Of course you look brilliant." Ron flinging off and abandoning his tie to the bed. "But you always do! So, honestly here? I'm sort of afraid to hug you with that thing on. 'spect I'd cut my hands."

She sent him a single, disparaging look.

"Like a fairy princess on acid, and I don't mean that in a good way—"

"Will you shut up?"

"Sorry, sorry. That was harsh." Ron knew a lost battle when he saw one (though he really had wanted to hug her comfortably). "I'm only teasing, you look lovely. The bell of the ball. A Cinderella in rhinestones and leather."

"I hope you're joking, but for the record? This is silk. Not leather."

"Plus rhinestones."

"So it's a bit sparkly! I like sparkles," she said defensively.

Ron snorted. "Sure you do. Least it's strapless. Shows off your lovely—"

"Don't you dare."

"—assets. What did you think I was going to say? Your belly bump? Breasts? Arse? Because, hey, don't get me wrong. It makes all those shine too." Ron considered his wife's backside for a long moment. "You know what? I've just realised I like sparkles."

"Good for you." She sent him a pointed look. "No blatantly staring at my arse during the gala, yes?"

"But it's a really nice arse."

"Thank you. But I don't want a photo of it turning up in the _Prophet_ 's society section."

Ron scratched his head. "Don't know if you can avoid that. Like I said, it's a great arse. Cream of the crop. All round and pert and—"

" _Thank you, Ronald._ " Hermione turned back to the mirror, though she was now flushed and had on a small smile. "Hush now and be serious: communication necklace for emergencies. Yes or no?"

"Depends. Can you fit a two-way mirror in your dress? Are you bringing a purse?"

She hesitated, looking herself up and down. "Necklace it is."

"Hey, wait. Where are you putting your wand?"

Hermione's flush deepened as she returned to trying to make her hair lie still. Ron stared at her with an even greater interest, hoping that there was a more risqué answer than simply him holding it for her in his coat.

* * *

" _Who's_ a squiggling Princess? Yeah! _Who's_ a squirmy, cutie Princess? Yeah!"

Rose giggled and caught Ron's larger hands in hers, laughing at having her belly tickled. With a roar her dad picked her up as she shrieked.

"Is a little Princess being eaten?" Ron exclaimed, 'taking a bite' of her nose. He was glad he'd left his tie upstairs, and was even happier he'd gone for comfortable muggle formal attire over stiff dress robes. "Yum!"

"Yeah yeah!" Rosie cheered back, clapping her hands. Her fairy princess outfit sparkled and flung about. Ron wondered if it had been mother or daughter who'd been inspired by the other. "D'agon!"

"Yeah, by a dragon!" Ron agreed, swinging the giggling girl around. In doing so he spotted a laughing figure who'd just come downstairs. "And who's this? Is someone trying to save the Princess from being gobbled up?"

"Wha'? WHO!"

"The QUEEN!" Hermione gave a cheer, springing forward and wrapping them both in a hug.

"MUMMY!"

"Nope, nuh-uh." Ron shook his head, trying to back up. "I don't care if you're a gorgeous temptress: you aren't taking my dinner!"

"Unhand her, handsome dragon!" Hermione held on as Ron tried to get away, the struggle plomping them on the floor. Rosie was cheering them both on, having climbed onto her dad's back. "Wouldn't you prefer a roast beef for dinner anyway?"

Ron considered this. Rose squealed in protest at the halted ride, her arms around his neck. "Don't know. Haven't had Princess in awhile."

"Lasagna then. Or even better?" Hermione leaned in for a stage whisper. " _Chocolate cake for dessert._ "

Ron brightened. He swivelled around to look at Rose as best he could. "What say you, fair Princess? Think I should trade you for lasagna and cake?"

"NO!" Rosie howled, grabbing him even tighter. "Wanna stay wi' d'agon!"

Both parents blinked.

"Rosie-Posie, you do know that means you'll be eat—"

"WANNA STAY WI' D'AGON!"

Hermione sent him an amused look, lightening her hug. "You ever get the feeling she's around Jamie too much?"

"The dragon obsession's contagious, I swear." Ron reached around to grab Rose and pull her onto his lap. "Okay Rosie, you can stay with the dragon."

"YAY!"

Ron scratched his chin in thought. "Your Uncle George and Aunt Angie would make trick-or-treating boring anyway."

Rose froze, the victorious beam still on her face. Her tiara had only stayed put due to numerous spells and hair clips. "Wha'?"

Hermione was nodding along, folding her legs beneath her and smoothing out her deep blue dress. "After all, a Princess like you wouldn't want to race around with your cousins for candy. Lots of candy. A whole bucket of candy…"

"A—candy?"

"Lots of candy." Ron nodded seriously. "But it's better to be eaten by a dragon, eh?"

"NO! No no no, sowwy! Don't wanna stay! CANDY!"

* * *

After dropping off a beaming Princess at George's and Angelina's (dressed for the occasion as Nessie and Bigfoot), Ron and Hermione apparated to the Ministry. The moment they entered the Atrium they were bombarded with frenzied crowds, shouting questions, and blinding camera flashes.

Ron plastered on a smile and kept a tight grip on his wife's hand. He really wished he was taking his daughter trick-or-treating around the muggle neighbourhood. Alternatively, he wished he'd talked to Hermione about staying in tonight. Indeed, now that he was here, he couldn't recall why he'd wanted to come.

He watched enviously as others in formal robes or gowns easily waltzed past the mad paparazzi line. Normally that'd be them as well. But Hermione had wanted to play nice with the louts that were convincing wizarding Britain that they'd soon be baked into pies. Unsurprisingly, her patience lasted up until she'd heard their shouting questions:

"MRS. WEASLEY, WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?"

"ANY COMMENT ON THE SWEENEY KILLERS?"

"WEASLEY, WEASLEY! _WITCH WEEKLY_ HERE, CAN I HAVE A MOMENT?"

"HOW ARE YOU SIDING ON THE POTTERS' PENDING DIVORCE?"

"YOU LOOK READY TO BURST! IS THE DUE DATE REALLY EARLY JANUARY?"

"WEASLEY-GRANGER, WILL YOU BE POTTER'S RUNNING MATE FOR MINISTER?"

"IS IT TWINS? YOU'RE HAVING TWINS!"

"WHY ARE YOU AT A GALA WHEN YOU SHOULD BE SOLVING THE CRIME SPREES?"

"Sweet Merlin," Ron muttered, pulling Hermione away when she looked ready to pounce more than one of the jostling reporters for commenting about her weight. "Remind me why we came to this?"

"Because you blackmailed Harry," Hermione quietly retorted, both of them making their way as quickly as they could through the crowd. She particularly kept up a fast pace, glancing back suspiciously, "and wanted to take the mick out of him. Dragging me along with you!"

"Come on, you wanted to play diplomat." Ron tried to keep on a strained smile while blinking back the camera flashes echoing through the Ministry Atrium. "Or is it someone else who's clamouring for more votes for the werewolf legislature?"

"Doesn't mean I had to do it at a gala."

"You were the one first trying to convince Harry to come to this!" Ron whispered in her ear.

Hermione's smile was decidedly forced, her voice even lower as she clutched Ron's arm in a vice-grip. " _No, I was trying to make peace between him and Kingsley. Didn't mean we had to go. You just wanted to rub it in his face!_ "

" _Not my fault he's hilarious all riled up—oh._ "

"Oh?" Hermione asked.

Ron nodded ahead of them, his wife following his gaze. "On that note…"

"No. No!" Hermione tried to keep him back but was pulled along instead, Ron making a beeline to a couple at the edge of the perimeter of reporters. Much of the paparazzi was congregating in this one part, with many more racing towards it. "You know he's near hexing you, so you think it's a good idea to barge in _while he's shouting at reporters?_ "

"Like I said, hilarious." Ron paid no mind to the warning and jogged ahead, soon coming into hearing range of the couple in question. This wasn't difficult, as one of them was indeed screaming obscenities at the reporters. The odd part was that the guilty one was the witch in a dark red dress, while the wizard was physically holding her back from hurdling over the barricade at the thrilled paparazzi.

"—are you kidding me, Bulstrode?" Ginny was hollering, squirming to get out of her husband's grip to attack the sneering woman. "Just because you've had three marriages end in affairs doesn't mean we're all sleeping around! HARRY, LET ME GET HER! You lot should make up your minds! Either I'm dosing my husband with love potions or I'm cheating on…excuse me? A _paternity test?_ OF COURSE HARRY'S THE FATHER, YOU BIT—"

"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!" Ron yelled over Ginny as he helped Harry drag the incensed witch back from the now frantically flashing cameras and Millicent Bulstrode's proud smirk. "Show's over!"

"Thanks," Harry muttered, the two of them still 'gently' shoving the furious Ginny towards the security stations at the main Ministry entrance. Hermione had joined them, quietly intoning a privacy spell.

"Let go of me!" Ginny tried to whirl around. "Bulstrode's always on some nonsense, it's past time someone shut her up!"

"We get it, pregnancy's made you barmy. Could you not— _Yowch!_ That was my shin!"

"Be glad I didn't aim higher," Ginny seethed.

"Could we act like adults? Please?" Harry nearly pleaded. Hermione nodded vigorously, also sending a beseeching look at the siblings.

"One event without us making the tabloids, that's all I ask," was Hermione's indignant request.

"Tough order, that one." Ginny scolded, calming down and straightening up from the wizards' holds. "What with the paparazzi on an endless warpath about love potions."

Harry grimaced. He took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves against the warmth from struggling with Ginny. "Or pies."

"Or Hermione's arse," Ron said thoughtfully (having become distracted through the conversation by his wife's frenzied and forceful appearance). The other three halted, gazes springing to him. Hermione was affronted but flattered. The Potters were nauseated.

Hermione awkwardly cleared her throat, giving a flustered stammer and patting down her dress. "Not that they'd—I mean—Ron, that was inappropriate and—surely not a _warpath_ , that is…oh! Would you look at that, we're at security. What a nice change of topic—scenery! Change of scenery."

"Do you ever get the sense we know too much about their relationship?" Harry was muttering to an equally disgusted Ginny, the previous scuffle already forgotten. Ron overheard.

"Like you can talk!" Ron scoffed. "The number of times I've walked in on you two."

"Whose fault is that?" Ginny huffed.

"Security, please. Please, dear god, can we stop talking about this?" Hermione said with a flush, only reluctantly taking down her privacy charm. The others, seeing this, took the blatant hint. "Let's just put the messy start behind us and get on with the evening without calamity. Please?"

"Absolutely," Harry agreed firmly. To illustrate he stepped up to the barricade and gave the waiting wizard a strained smile, pulling his wand and rummaging in his pocket. "Evening, Scott."

Security had been amped up for the event, with entrance only granted into the inner Ministry through one of the security booths. Wands were checked, tickets were examined, and everyone went through a doorway which catalogued image-altering spells and potions (much the high society's discomfort, what with the abundance of fashionable glamours). Lines had already formed at most of these entrances, though the Potters and Weasleys had aimed for the empty, expedient security meant for MLE personnel.

'Scott', a young but resolute hit-wizard, grinned back at Harry with a spot of nervousness. His eyes flickered over the four of them as he took the wand. "Good evening, Head Auror. Bit of trouble out there?"

"Eh, reporters." Harry shrugged as he got out his badge and also handed it over. "I'll also need a pass for my wife Ginny. Full clearance and floo access. Gin? We need your wand for a moment."

Ginny sent Scott a chipper grin, pulling out her wand. Ron blinked and did a double take, not having seen where the wand had appeared from her thin dress and shawl. Almost as quickly he realised he absolutely did not want to know.

Scott had already done a diagnosis over both wands and had glanced over the results with a practiced air. "Holly with phoenix feather and yew with dragon heartstring?" To the Potters' nods he handed back their wands. "Do either of you have a second wand or other concealed weapon?"

"Nope."

"Badge, and I'd prefer not to say," Harry replied instead, having the bored air of someone who'd gone through this a fair few times.

Scott looked down at it and slightly reddened. He handed back the badge, as well as giving Ginny a pass. "Ah, yes. Sorry about that. You two can go through, have a good evening."

As Harry stowed his wand away and Ginny dropped her wand and pass down the top of her dress ('Yeah,' Ron chided himself, 'didn't want to know that'), Hermione was looking at Harry as though petering on the edge of a question.

Ron, realising what it was, leaned over to whisper in her ear: " _Ginny's paranoid. Plus, with the Sweenies, I sorta bugged him into adding more…accessories._ "

Hermione was now unsurprised. As the Potters cleared the magical barricade, she murmured back: " _Do I want to know?_ "

" _George had a hand in it._ "

"I'm good then," Hermione replied back in her normal voice, stepping up to the barricade. "Hello, Hit-Wizard Scott."

"Madam Director. Senior Auror Weasley." Scott greeted them as their wands and badges were handed over. A charm was waved over them. Ron gave his wife a more inspecting glance, having again missed where her objects had come from. "Vine wood with dragon heartstring and willow with unicorn hair?" Two nods and the wands were handed back. This time, the badges were more closely inspected. "I see you're both allowed concealed weapons. Though it isn't required you respond, might I ask if you have a second wand or other assorted weapons?"

"No, nothing," Hermione replied.

"No second wand," Ron said, earning him a slight glance from his wife.

"All's in order." Scott handed back the badges. "Have a pleasant evening."

As they stowed their items (Ron was almost positive she also quickly stowed hers in the front of her dress: was this a thing? How had he missed the thing? Did she have an expanding charm in there? Was this normal for witches?) and strolled through the shimmering barrier way into the main Ministry, Hermione gave Ron a side-long glance.

"…knife in my boot," Ron admitted, straightening his coat as they made their way towards the waiting Potters. His mind was still partly on her suddenly mysterious cleavage. "It seemed like a good idea when George was talking Harry into it. Not trying to hide it: forgot until right now, to be honest. He made them feel exactly like shoes. Right impressive."

Hermione nodded as they walked up to their relatives, who had been quietly talking and watching the growing crowd of mingling guests in the far larger room adjacent to theirs. "Does he make them as heels?"

"Angie's working on it. Still, there goes one of my Yule presents to you. So!" he said as they joined the Potters. "Ready to be swarmed by society's elite?"

"No," Harry and Ginny answered as one, in different tones of distaste.

"Too bad," Ron answered jovially, ignoring the peeved glance Harry sent him and leading them through the waiting room into the reception hall.

There had been a problem when it'd been decided that the galas would be held in the Ministry of Magic. Namely, there was no decent place in the Ministry to hold a ball. The ambassadorial dining halls were too small, the Atrium was too unwieldy (and filled with floos), and the Wizengamot courts were too official. The answer eventually decided upon was plausibly the most complicated one: to magically convert the ground and first floors from individual wings and offices into a handful of large, flowing rooms. Those bordering the Atrium became the security screening area. These were mainly due to the enhanced security features in the aftermath of the Fudge kidnapping, with all floo entrances outside of the secure Ministerial zone and with anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards set up on the first two floors.

Once through the security zone guests could mingle in the reception area, nibbling appetisers at small though tall tables, sipping gillywater (or something stronger from the bar), and showing off their robes as they waited to enter the dining hall for the main event.

After the fiasco in the Atrium, each member of the Weasley-Potter group had intended on making a quick pace for the empty dining hall and waiting there until dinner. But they found their paths blocked the moment they walked through the door into reception by a parade of rigorous handshakes and jolly voices. Ron was very distrustful of words like 'mingling' for exactly this reason. It almost made him miss the reporters outside. He did, however, notice that Harry was having even worse luck than his barrage of unwanted company:

"Why, if it isn't the Boy Who Lived!" A wizard with gangly legs and bright orange robes blustered. "Or the Man Who Lived, eh? Bet you haven't heard that before!"

"A much belated congratulations on your promotion, my lad. I'm sure you'll have the little pie matter settled in no time." The chuckling man shook Harry's hand, clapping his bare arm as he did so.

A voluptuous redhead ('Awful dye job', Ron mused) practically purred. "Ooo, Harry, I've always wanted to meet you. Tell me, do you sign…certain appendages?"

"Lord Potter! Splendid to see you. Would you be interested in a small donation for an orphan charity drive? I know it's a cause close to your heart."

Ginny was ignoring her own crowd of spectators to not-so-subtly drive away the more obscene of Harry's with insulting puns and double entendres (the substantially gifted bad dye job was rather enthusiastically shoved away). Hermione was the only one of the four who vaguely seemed to be enjoying herself, but this was because she had a better poker face when dealing with politicians.

As Ron waved away the fourth person who 'cheerfully' informed him that he'd surely get a handle on the Sweenies in no time, he noted the crowd fighting for their attention had died down. This was mainly due to more people filtering into the reception hall and it becoming harder to manoeuvre. Taking advantage of a quiet moment he turned to Harry to congratulate him on having not yet maimed anyone. But this was rapidly cut off by a new arrival.

Kingsley Shacklebolt gave nods to Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, before turning to Harry with a pinched expression. It was a toss up as to which man seemed more reluctant to be there. "Harry. We both know this isn't a perfect situation—"

"Perfect?" Harry cut in, letting his faux smile drop. It seemed he'd used up all of his patience for the evening. "You're right, it's a long ways from there. You want to score political points? By all means. But all I wished was that you wouldn't drag me into it and wouldn't make a mockery of the war. Was that too much to ask?"

The Minister sighed. "I apologise that I needed to force you into this. It was underhanded and I take all responsibility. But this isn't making a mockery of the war, as you well know."

"No, I don't know. What I see is you parading around galas in a nonsense year-long memorial." Harry kept one eye on Hermione, who was still talking to a Wizengamot member and hadn't noticed the elevating conversation.

"Which has made thousands of galleons in charity already!" Kingsley argued right back, keeping his voice low yet terse. "Don't be daft, Harry, it doesn't suit you. None of us can stand Ripley and his flamboyant methods. But almost all the profits for these 'nonsense galas' are going to those hurt from the war."

"You would have gotten the donations anyway," Harry hissed back, both wizards only making the faintest attempt to keep their argument to the small circle. "I would have given even more if you hadn't done this, and I know I'm not the only one."

"You're missing the main point. It's about keeping it in the news."

"About keeping _me_ in the news."

"Not everything is personal, Potter!"

" _You used my parents to force me to come!_ "

Kingsley opened his mouth to retort, before deflating. "You're right, I did. Though I'm not sorry I did it. This is bigger than either of us and has nothing to do with 'scoring political points'. It's about putting an end to the war, with the symbols of peace front and centre. Why can't you see that?"

"So I'm a symbol now. What happened to this not being personal?" Harry rubbed his forehead then ran a hand through his hair in impatience.

"Sweet Merlin Potter, would you stop?"

"You blackmailed me through the _Prophet_."

"I didn't blackmail you!"

"Of course you did," came the retort.

Kingsley scowled, his annoyance rearing. "Good god, the Head Auror doesn't even know what blackmail means."

"Good god," Harry imitated in a sour drawl, paling rather than reddening like Kingsley, "the Minister of Magic is this awful at hiding his crimes."

"It wasn't a crime!"

"You blackmailed me!"

"CHILDREN!" Hermione interrupted, having noticed the elevated voices she tried to stand between the two. She sent an annoyed glance at Ron and Ginny, to which the siblings looked away innocently. "In case you missed it, we're in public—"

"—would you stop!" was Harry's curt reply to Kingsley's stance rather than Hermione statement. "I don't care. I'm sick of politics, of bureaucracy, and I'm sick of people using the papers to manipulate me. I don't care if it's for charity." He stepped forward around Hermione, arms flinging out. "I'm doing your bloody speech, so leave me alone. Try taking 'yes' for an answer!"

Kingsley stilled, taking a closer look at the pale man. His anger diluted as both men seemed to remember where they were. "You're right."

"Really? I thought you were going to go on about my insolence," Harry groaned, rubbing his forehead again with a furious swipe. Ron tilted his head, thinking he noticed something on his arm.

"Don't be ridiculous," the Minister sighed, having realised that not only was there a crowd of onlookers, but that the argument had derailed. "Thank you for coming and for giving a speech. I apologise that I coerced you into it. Like I said, I take full responsibility."

Harry gave a hard look at Ron, but continued before the redhead could step in (as he'd felt a twinge of guilt). "I'm sick of arguing with everyone. Leave me alone and I'll return the favour."

Kingsley looked like he wanted to say something, but took a glance at the eagerly listening crowd and visibly changed his mind. "Very well. Though, Harry, I want to make it clear that I view this as just a disagreement. It has no standing on what I think of you and, regardless of what's been reported, it certainly doesn't effect my great respect for you and your position."

"Great. Wonderful." Harry rubbed his head with a groan. "You don't think I'm incompetent, that's nice. Minister, with all due respect: I have a headache from all the reporters, I don't want to be here, and I'm sure you have plenty of people to talk to. Can we leave this for later?"

Kingsley sent him a long look before nodding. He began to turn away before hesitating. "You do look pale. A chimaera fever's going around, I'd try pepper-up. Clears it right up."

"I'll be sure to," Harry said drily.

"Oh and, you have paint on your arm, did you know?" With that Kingsley gave the four of them curt nods and stepped away to a group of ambassadors. Harry blinked, looking down at his arm.

Ginny shook her head (likely processing the quasi-argument and being thankful no one was hexed) before following Harry's gaze. "Hmm. From Jamie finger painting earlier?"

Harry brushed away the bits of blue gunk and rolled his sleeves back down. "Must've missed a spot."

Taking account of the dispersing crowd (having seen that the 'main event' had finished), Ron tried to further disperse the lingering tension. "So, Harry. Ten sickles you have Shacklebolt in tears before the night's over?" he joked, patting his friend's shoulder.

"Seriously?" Harry shoved Ron's hand away, his voice tight and irritated, albeit low so as not to be overheard. "Stop making me out to be a scheming prat! I'm the only blasted one staying civil, and you have so much nerve to claim otherwise. Would you get off my back and let me bloody well breathe?!"

The rant abruptly cued an awkward silence, only punctured by the swelling noise of conversation and clicking wine glasses around them. Ron's mouth hung open, with the women equally startled at the outburst. While Harry's sudden anger had faded as soon as it'd erupted, he was irritatedly back to rubbing his forehead.

Ginny stepped to him, placing a gentle hand on Harry's arm. "You okay?"

"I'd be fine if he stopped bothering me!" Harry sniped. Still, after a few more seconds, his irritableness resolved into a deep sigh. "Sorry, sorry. I'm grumpy from a headache. I shouldn't have jumped on you."

"Err, sure." Ron wasn't entirely sure what to make of this. At the moment, he was glad wands hadn't been drawn. "Reckon I had it coming."

"You were fine earlier," Ginny was saying quietly to Harry. "I didn't think to bring the headache reliever."

"Neither did I. But it's fine. I'm fine." Harry's face was still tensed as he kissed her. "It came on suddenly, must've hit me outside. I'm sure it'll be gone soon. But hah, like pepper-up would do a thing!" He slumped slightly, not enough that any of the buzzing crowd would notice. Ginny cupped his chin in unconvinced concern, but he shook her away, forcing himself straight.

"The headache reliever," Hermione spoke up, "do you have any in your office?"

"It's all at home. Doesn't matter." Harry forced his hand away from his face. "I'm making this into a big deal. The dratted things fade away soon enough, I'm just tired."

Ginny didn't look convinced. Ron (seeing his friend's pale demeanour) was equally cynical. Hermione seemed to agree, but forced on a cheery smile.

"How about we sit down?" she said appeasingly. When Harry began to protest that this was unnecessary, she hurried on. "I'd love a break from the horde of people. It'd be wonderful to get off my feet and go someplace quieter. Ginny, you too?"

"Absolutely," Ginny latched onto this, smiling at her unconvinced husband and amused brother. "The extra weight and all, you know how it is."

"I'm not oblivious," Harry said. "I know what you're doing."

"We're two pregnant women who want to sit down." Ginny wrapped her arm in his and led them to the dining room, swaying carefully between the small tables and ever growing crowds. "Are you protesting this?"

"Horrible idea, mate." Ron followed behind them with an arm around Hermione's waist (he'd been glad to find out earlier that the sparkly gems did not, in fact, cut). She went him an adoring glance. "Best shut up and play nice."

Harry turned around to glare, making it clear he got the reference. But as Ginny drew his attention back to her as they entered the dining hall, Ron found his attention diverted.

He had been in here recently, lending a hand in installing the new security measures. But he'd only seen it in the daylight with none of the ornaments attached. Tonight, the cavernous hall was like something out of a play. Darkened throughout, the only lights came from floating little whirls of fire (one of whom, when Ron reached out to touch it, curled harmlessly but warmly around his hand before scurrying off). These were more than enough to reveal the many scattered crystalline tables, the unlit chandeliers which shone with glistening mother-of-pearl, and the afar stage with a curtain of thick crimson.

Without any pumpkins or skulls, the place perfectly befitted Halloween. Still, it was missing a much needed spark.

"Shame there's no dancing skeletons," Harry said, having the same thought as Ron.

"It's lovely," was Ginny's small exhale, her gaze darting around. "What a nice idea!"

"Very elegant," Hermione agreed. The two men exchanged a look, hiding their grins. Harry already seemed to be regaining his cheer (though, Ron admitted, maybe he just couldn't see properly in this room). "We should be in the front…oh, I think they want us to follow them!"

Indeed, a few whiffs of fire were spiralling around Hermione's outstretched hand, clearly urging them forward. The amused four followed the eager lights, noticing that groups of the sparks were swaying around each table, creating small circles of flickering light.

"Like campfires," Harry said. He didn't sound altogether happy about this. Ron shared the sentiment. Even years later, anything involving camping reminded him of their year on the run during the war. He squeezed Hermione's hand. She gently squeezed back.

"I can see that," Ginny said more pleasantly, missing the dark note in her husband's voice. "A nice idea, it really is. You can almost imagine roasting marshmallows over the tables!"

The other three didn't speak up. Ginny blinked at them. Ron couldn't tell if she couldn't quite see their expressions in the dark or if she just thought they weren't talkative, but she didn't continue the conversation. It was as well, for they'd reached their table right next to the stage. The fire whiffs accompanying them floated off, but those encircling their area almost seemed to glint cheerily at them.

Sitting down Ron took a look around. They weren't the first ones in, but the vast dining room was still bare compared to the crowded outer entranceway. As for their table, there were four more chairs left to be filled. At each place was a delicately folded napkin atop the silverware. Ginny was wiggling a finger at hers, an orchid flexing its stem and leaves. Harry's was a black cat that was currently stretching on his hand. Hermione's napkin owl hooted silently and flapped its wings.

Draping his coat over the chair, Ron glanced at his own. His eyes lightened at the folded broomstick who—noticing the attention on it—started soaring around the plate.

"I'll feel bad unfolding these." Ginny tucked the flower behind her ear.

"Least yours isn't alive," Harry noted, the cat climbing his shoulder.

"I think this is a Nimbus." Ron peered more closely, pinching the broom to keep it in place. He'd quickly decided there wasn't a chance he was undoing the enchantment. Unless… "Say, Hermione. Know what spell they used for these?"

"Haven't the faintest." Hermione tickled the owl's chin as it flapped about her cheek.

"Know a spell to conjure another napkin, then?"

"Yes, please." Ginny echoed Ron. "These are lovely, it'd be a shame to waste them. A wonder that Ripley managed to do something right."

Harry groaned (though a moment before he'd been amused at the cat stretching on top of his head). "Can we not talk about him? I was just starting to feel better."

"A rant could do you good," Ginny pointed out. "After all, it's not like anyone here likes the smarmy bloke."

"Always reminded me of Lockhart," Ron said, picturing Reginald Ripley. The man behind the year-long memorial, he was tight-lipped about where exactly he'd been during the war itself. With a flair for the dramatic and a wardrobe that could've rivalled Dumbledore's, he adored the spotlight. It was little wonder that he and Harry didn't get along. "Can't get much more of an inflated head, even for being a glorified party planner."

"He's milking it for all he's worth. You should have heard him the other day," Ginny lowered her voice in a bemused imitation. "'Lady Potter-Black, what a pleasure! Don't be modest now, embrace your ancestry. Where did you get those…lovely…overalls, did you call them? Reminds me of a polka-dotted and ruffled costume I wore on the West End once—yes, _that_ West End! Greatest Hamlet those muggles have ever seen. There was a small ruckus in the second act. Nothing to worry about, small fire from a spilt lamp. Only three fainting fits, still a marvellous show!'"

Ron was snickering by the end, while Hermione held up the napkin owl to cover her laugh. Harry gave a faint grin.

"It wouldn't be that annoying if Ripley would get basic names right," Ginny returned to her normal voice.

Hermione gave a token protest, the owl now happily hanging upside down from her hoop earring. "Could we hold off on insulting people who could very well be coming up right behind us?"

Ginny froze before taking a quick glance behind her, making the flower droop in her hair before it ruffled itself back up. She turned back with a gruff: "Hermione, don't scare me like that! I thought that was an actual warning."

"It was the principle of the matter," Hermione said. "Maybe I'm being overly sensitive, but I'm tired of all the name-calling being flung around these days."

"Unless it's justified," Harry spoke up darkly, grimacing at Ron. "Like if it's to a twat who uses my dead parents against me!"

The other three stopped, staring at Harry. Ron hesitated, confused not at the words but at the (once again) suddenly reignited anger.

"What!" Harry scowled at them, rubbing his forehead. "I hate this whole thing, and here he is grinning like he hasn't a care in the world."

Hermione peered at him. The napkin owl silently hooted. "Harry, how are you feeling?"

"Like I don't bloody well want to be here."

Ginny trailed her fingers down his pale cheek, worry ringing her eyes. "You're positively clammy. Are you alright?"

Harry hesitated for a long moment. So long that the others had begun to think he wouldn't answer. "No, not really. I feel awful." It sounded like it pained him to admit he wasn't well. "Actually I, yeah." After faltering another moment he took the napping cat from his shoulder and put it on the table. Taking his coat he stood, grimacing at the action. He gestured towards where they'd entered, giving his forehead a furious scrub as he did so. "I'll be back soon. I'll try splashing water on my face, maybe grab some pepper-up. I don't know."

"Yeah," Ron frowned. Squinting at him through the poor light, the man did look peaky. "How bad's the migraine?"

Harry was already far enough away that he missed this. Ron, shrugging, turned back to the table. Ginny, glancing over at her husband, also looked away as he walked out of sight of the whiffs of fire.

* * *

As they continued to chat (more subdued, as each glanced occasionally at the empty seat and stretching cat), people started to properly filter into the dining hall. Most were rough patches of blackness sketched at odd moments with spiralling light, though there were exceptions.

A familiar laugh and a robe with a grinning Jack O'Lantern (lit with licking bluebell flames) made Ron near positive Luna had arrived. When he spotted the entrance of a life-size glow-in-the-dark skeleton (who promptly snogged the 'stem' of the pumpkin), he knew with a certainty that the Scamanders were in attendance. He was disappointed to see them head to a different corner of the hall, as those two could liven up any dull Ministry gala.

The first newcomers to pop up at their table didn't bode well for the evening. Sitting by the magical Ambassador to France was one thing (toupee which kept shiftily moving or no), but the peroxided blonde on his arm was staring at them. Staring eagerly. Like she wanted to eat them up. He was fairly certain her top was about to pop out of her barely-there dress.

Ginny's pleasant smile had dropped to a scowl when she'd spotted the woman. "Vane," she reluctantly acknowledged.

"Weasley," was the retort. She unraveled the folded napkin crane before her with a snap! Ron petted the mini-Nimbus, who'd frightfully soared to his chest at the sight. He didn't dwell on how the thing could have seen the fate of its comrade.

"You've got something on your hair." Ginny ignored the last name, gesturing at the woman's head. "Did you spill some bleach? I'd get that cleaned up if I was you."

"You're one to talk." Vane glared as she and the man sat, the wizard distracted in sending her adoring glances. Ron frowned, trying to place her. "It's like someone set fire to your head!"

"Like I haven't that heard that before," Ginny deadpanned before speaking to her confused companions. "Ron, Hermione? Looks like you're lucky enough not to remember Romilda Vane. Seems she's caught a big one with her love potions. How nice."

Vane reddened, holding on more tightly to the wizard (who was now sending Ginny a scowl as well). Ron, on the other hand, paled. He didn't care about the woman, but it was hard not to picture the dosed Chocolate Cauldrons. Or the weightlessness and fog of a love potion. Or the fiery brutality of a poison torching his throat.

Hermione gave his hand a gentle, firm squeeze. He felt a sweep of appreciation for his wife: not a word and she knew exactly what his mind had went to. He mentally shook himself and kissed her cheek. When he glanced back up, Ginny was looking at them with amusement, and Vane with a pinched mouth and puckered nose. The man had returned to gazing at his date.

Hermione coughed, easing the tension. "Ambassador Rossi? It's a pleasure to see you again. Are you in Britain long?"

"Hmm?" Rossi looked at her. "Oh yes, quite a time. For Ministry business, but mainly for little Romy here," said with a sickening expression.

By now Ron was gazing at Rossi in concern, his own indirect misadventure with Vane in mind. Hermione, seeing this, whispered in his ear. " _Andre Rossi has a new woman every week, he isn't potioned. Rossi likes sex, Vane likes money._ "

Ron's face screwed up at the words, though he felt a dollop of relief. He then looked anywhere but at the couple, who had no idea what was publicly appropriate. Glancing around the room, he spotted Percy and Audrey coming down the aisle to a table near them. Audrey gave a cheery wave. Percy nodded, caught up in conversation with…the Minister? Ron squinted: yes, it looked like him, as well as a clump of people who could as likely be bodyguards or brown-nosing politicians.

Kingsley, Percy, and Audrey sat at a table right next to the stage as well. The lumbering figures went to one a step away. In the closer light, Audrey was bored. Especially bored. She was squinting back at them and seemed ready to excuse herself and step forward, when she spotted the heavily petting couple.

'Yeah,' Ron shrugged at her blinking look, 'can't blame her for that one.'

The other tables near the stage were slowly being filled with important or notable figures. Neville and Hannah Longbottom looked out of place compared to this mainly snooty and egoistic crowd. The couple in question were laughing and poking at the fiery whirls that led them to their table. Neville was also spinning a giggling Hannah around about something, which made an elderly witch by them scowl.

At their own table, Vane was detaching her mouth from Rossi's with a loud _Smack!_ and turned to them. "Where's the Boy Who Lived, anyway? He left you?" she sneered at Ginny. The latter sent her an unimpressed look, likely more disappointed by the poor attempt at an insult than anything.

"Bathroom," Ginny waved pointedly at the empty seat next to her. After a moment, however, she frowned at the space. "He is taking awhile."

"Probably getting a quickie," Vane promptly reattached herself to the enthusiastic Rossi. Ron would've spoken up angrily, but he'd caught Ginny's expression and realised she didn't give a damn about the woman. Instead, she was still looking contemplatively at the seat.

"You know what," Ginny addressed her relatives, putting her shawl back on, "I'll go check on Harry. Be right back."

Sliding her chair out and standing up, she'd barely moved a few steps before she was ambushed by a frenzied woman. Ron noted that no whirls of fire were accompanying her.

"Oh, Mrs. Potter! There ye are. Ah've been looking everywhere," the new witch caught her breath as Ginny stared at her. As the mousy-haired woman's breathing evened out, her Scottish burr was wrapped around excited though nervous words. "Honour tae meet ye, ma'am. Nellie Lovett, a pleasure. Ah'm sorry tae bother ye, but Mister Ripley—"

"What now!" Ginny huffed at the name, having already had a fake smile on in the face of a fan or a politician. "Don't tell me you're another assistant of his."

"High turnover." Lovett gave an apologetic smile. Ron noted her business attire rather than formal outfit. He frowned: something about her seemed familiar, but he couldn't put his finger on it. "Ah've been sent because Mister Potter's been required tae go backstage fer preparation, so he'll like'y miss the first bit of dinner. Ah'm very sorry." She coughed, sheepish as her professional voice became informal. "Really sorry. See, my boss ambushed him on his way back tae ye lot an' took 'im tae the back. Your husband shouted Ah should let ye know not tae worry, enjoy the appetisers, and tae let 'im take care of it. Though it may take a wee bit."

"I swear, that man." Ginny shook her head, retaking her seat and unwrapping her shawl. "Ms. Lovett, is Ripley always such a terror?"

"When he fires me, Ah'll let ye know." The woman gave a helpless shrug, before becoming horrorstruck. "But it's Nellie, please, and sweet Circe Ah can't believe Ah'm meeting ye like this! Was bad enough havin' _the_ Harry Potter annoyed at mae, but now Ah've not even mentioned your World Cup victories. Ah've also been ignoring Ron and Hermione Weasley! Please don't be offended?"

Ron couldn't help but snicker, though felt a tinge guilty at the downtrodden expression Lovett sent them. Hermione was doing better with a sympathetic smile.

"We aren't about to blame the messenger," the brunette reassured the woman. "We all understand having a demanding boss. But could you let Ripley know that kidnapping the presenters is going to make them even less inclined to come back?"

"Unbelievable." Ginny was more ruffled by Ripley than Hermione. "Harry wasn't feeling well! The nerve of that man."

"Relax, Gin." Ron also gave the once-again-panicking Lovett an understanding look. He ignored his sister's look at the nickname. "Missing dinner isn't going to kill him."

* * *

The arrival of an elderly couple to their table ("Count and Countess Patridge!" was Hermione's greeting. "I was hoping to see you. Thank you again for your support of the newest werewolf rights legislature.") and the departure of Ripley's assistant ("Aye, Ah have tae go. The man is like a bairn, needs three diff'rent types o' milk tae warm up fer a speech! Sorry again.") made way for a comfortable silence.

Ginny had borrowed Rossi's napkin wolf (who was still busy with Vane and had given a distracted nod when she'd asked permission), snagged Harry's purring cat, and was busily making a flower-and-plate 'house' for the animals who were circling and sniffing each other. Hermione's owl seemed happy to stay put (nestled in her cleavage, Ron couldn't blame the thing) while the mini-Nimbus was making a cautionary buzz around Ginny's plate.

Oddly, a few of the light whiffs wanted to join the fun. Soon enough, the surrounding tables had dimmed as a small number had 'abandoned their posts' to cheerfully fly around Ginny. The napkins were less than amused. The cat hissed and even though flower turned away, though the fire only produced warmth rather than flames. Their neighbouring tables also weren't that happy, as the dining hall had almost entirely filled at this point.

The Count and Countess seemed delighted at the napkin display, though this was perhaps due to it being a distraction from the nauseating sight of Rossi doing his best to swallow Vane's face (not that she was protesting). Ron tapped his plate, thoughts elsewhere even when the owl and broom had decided to join the small whiffs in soaring about their table.

He couldn't get something out of his head. He was more transparent than he realised, because it wasn't long before Hermione was poking him. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Nothing." Ron frowned to himself. "Ripley's assistant is bugging me. She seems familiar but—nah, can't place her. It's not her face, I haven't seen her before. But it's something?" He scratched his chin, looking back up at the two women. "Her name. Nellie Lovett, right? Her last name, it—" he froze before an exasperated groan left him, "oh hell."

"What?" It was Ginny's turn.

"It's really nothing." Ron leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes with a sigh. "Mrs. Lovett's a character from that Sweeney Todd play. Some of the Aurors won't stop singing the thing and, apparently, it's gotten stuck in my head. Can't escape this case these days. Now I'm seeing it in random people's last names!"

Ginny muffled a chuckle, though was sympathetic. "You and Harry are peas in a pod, he won't stop complaining about that musical either. Though I swear I heard him singing the opening number in the shower the other day."

"Traitor," Ron mumbled, casting his thoughts away from the assistant.

"Oh, it's catchy," Ginny continued good-naturedly. "I've been thinking of seeing it on the West End, myself. Still figuring out how to drag Harry to the show. You two in?"

"No thank you, I'll pass," said Hermione. "I get more than enough of the Sweenies at work."

"Same," Ron echoed.

"Sorry, I should've known you've both seen too much of this." Ginny sipped her water. "I'm lucky, having some distance to it. Sure, Harry brings his work home, and it was dreadful when Parvati was taken. But the number keeps rising. What is it now, two dozen?"

'Try double that,' Ron thought, picturing the earlier, underreported disappearances that hadn't been connected by the press to the Sweenies. Thankfully, further discussion was halted by a loudly clearing throat.

"Ah hem. _Ah hem!_ " Reginald Ripley pronounced in a reverberating tone from the stage, having just cast a sonorus on himself. He waved his arms to the side, a bright beam on his face. As the red curtains opened behind him, a sudden rush of whiffy lights illuminated him like a shining halo. Due to this transference of light, the rest of the hall had descended into a dull dim which was just enough to make out one's surrounding table.

"Ladies and gentlemen and variations thereupon, may I have your attention please!" The roar of conversations around the room descended into a hushed silence. "Thank you, thank you. I wish to welcome all our esteemed guests to our little shindig—the _Halloween Gala!_ " There was polite applause, led by Ripley's enthusiastic clapping.

"Many thanks to the Ministry for hosting us tonight. To Minister Shacklebolt, of course, and our wonderful planning committee! Can all of you stand up? Give them a hand, please. It's thanks to their hard work that we're able to have this glorious night. Of course, this is also only possible thanks to all of your generous support. We're already breaking records for charity, but I intend on dragging every knut I can out of you this evening!"

Another applause mingled with laughter. Ron stifled a yawn, clapping on automatic. He couldn't take his gaze away from Ripley's colourful outfit. The voluminous purple robe with twinkling gold stars was outrageous enough. But it had nothing on his streaked violet hair and teetering silver hat that looked like a mix between a beehive and a Christmas ornament. He looked more closely: were Ripley's teeth glowing?

"We cannot forget why we're here tonight," Ripley's voice fell into what he clearly thought passed for sombreness. "This year, we're celebrating a decade of peace! A decade of prosperity! Ten wonderful years of growth, where our beloved nation has healed and made great strides into the future!"

There was a louder applause this time. Even Ron found himself caught up in it.

"But there is still work to be done. All of us know the ugliness in past months, but look below the surface! At the underfunded St. Mungo's! The ill-funded orphanages for the war's children! The reparations to so many who lost their homes, their health, their security! We cannot forget, and this is what these memorials are about. To give to those still recovering."

Ron admitted to himself that Ripley's speech wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected it to be (though the man's costume was an eyesore). He hadn't been to the other galas, but if the emphasis really was on charity? Judging from his companions' expressions, they were thinking similarly.

Ripley waved his arms to help silence the burgeoning claps. "In this series of memorials, we have already given thousands of galleons. We, as a people, have celebrated heroes as Albus Dumbledore, and regretted such tragic societal mistakes that created the likes of You Know Who! Tonight, though, is about remembrance. No day is better than Halloween to remember the end of the first war and the first fall of He Who Must Not Be Named. So we will celebrate, and feast!"

There was loud applause at the last. Ron felt Ginny stiffen beside him and there was also a frown on Hermione's face. He wasn't sure if it was because Ripley hadn't said Voldemort's name, or if it was because he was making it out to be a holiday. Likely both.

"Yes yes, rejoice!" Ripley cheered as the clapping settled. "I'm sure many here recall the celebrations of Halloween 1981. I personally don't—which is a shame, as I woke up the next morning with a raging hangover and two lovely brunettes. What a wild night, eh?" There was a burst of laughter. Ginny was scowling, fingers twisted together. "Ah, memories. Though yes, there was a dark side to that night of mirth. The family that was at the centre was torn apart, and in its remains grew a hero!"

Ginny moved to stand up. Ron placed a hand on her shoulder, shooting her a pointed look. She glared back at him, but at least stayed in her seat. Hermione at least wasn't trying to leave her seat, though she did look about ready to use Ripley as target practice. Ron couldn't blame either of them—he was feeling about the same.

"But that is all for later," Ripley dismissed with a wave of his wand. "For now, let's go over the layout of the evening! First, we have a delightful arrangement of appetisers coming up. Simply point your wand at the menu item and pronounce its name. For the non-witches and wizards in the crowd, any appendage will do." He gave the room a saucy wink, met with a roll of guffaws. "While we're eating tonight's speaker will come to the stage! In case you've missed the headlines blaring from the _Daily Prophet_ , I'll keep quiet on that to not spoil the surprise."

There was another wave of laughter.

"Next there will be a break before dinner. This is the part where I pry all the knuts from your hands!" Ripley gave a jolly chuckle. "We'll be serving up an auction with your meal. To bid, simply wave your wand—or assorted appendage—in the air and cry out your bid. These helpful fiery friends will come to you and shift into your bidding number. Put it up quick, you won't want to lose out on our prizes! A list of which will appear during dinner. We have plenty to bid on: from tickets to the World Cup in the Seychelles, to a shopping spree at Gladrags Wizardware and Harrods, to an autograph signing with the famous Potters!"

Ginny choked on air, staring at Ripley in mild horror. Ron failed miserably at hiding his laugh, though even Hermione was smiling in bemusement. Vane sent a glare at all of them, giving an extra loud _smack!_ on Rossi's lips. The Patridges inched further away from the snogging couple.

" _Another one of yours?_ " Hermione quietly asked her husband as Ginny turned a steaming red.

" _Nope,_ " Ron whispered back. " _George, you think?_ "

Ripley was still talking. "After that, there will be a break for the rest of dinner and dessert. Then comes my favourite part, a party game called Raise Your Wands! If you're familiar with muggle customs, it's like a Paddle Call. If you aren't, you'll find out soon enough! It's a chance to donate lavishly and brag while doing it, so plenty of fun to go around." Another wink and some guffaws from the audience. "Our Halloween will wind down with dancing, chatting, and after dinner drinks. But this is all aways down the road! For now all of you can sit back, relax, and order your appetisers. Our speaker will be out before you know it."

On cue, menus appeared on their plates (much to the still-playing cat's and wolf's annoyance). Ron promptly picked his up, glad to be at the only nice part of the evening (though, to be fair, slow dancing with Hermione sounded nice).

Hermione was still frowning at the stage. "Maybe this was a mistake. Did you hear him? All the talk about charity, then he glosses over the end of the first war as a drunken night out!"

"What did you expect? The bloke couldn't even say Voldemort." Ron read the menu, which was made easier as some of the light had returned to the table when Ripley had stepped behind the curtains. A slow rumble of conversation reignited through the hall. "Know what you're having?"

Hermione frowned. "We've had the menus for all of five sec—"

"Mozzarella sticks." Ginny promptly nodded, having instantly made her choice. Ron grinned proudly at his sister. Hermione's exasperated look now covered both of them. "What? Growing up, I had to know what to grab first at dinner or these berks would get it."

"We would." Ron agreed. "Course, that meant there was never any lasagna left. 'cause she was a speedy shrimp demon."

"I'd never eat all the lasagna! Don't call me a shrimp."

"You'd hog the entire platter. Also, why aren't you protesting the demon comment?"

"Salad, I think." Hermione had ignored the argument once it was clear that the siblings had gotten on a roll. She looked anticipatorily at her plate before she recalled how it was done. Drawing her wand, she placed it on the appropriate line. "The caesar salad, please."

As a delectable appetiser appeared on her plate, Ron and Ginny instantly remembered that there was something better to do than argue.

"Garlic bread, extra garlic," pronounced Ron, jabbing his menu. He took a big sniff of the smell and promptly ate a piece. He'd begun talking again while chewing, but had then stolen a look at Hermione and waited until he'd swallowed. "Yeah, but seriously: how pissed off do you think Harry is after that?"

"He's surely screaming at Ripley backstage. 'Celebrating Halloween', hah! And like we'd sign anything. The nerve of that man!" Ginny gently slid the playing napkins off her plate and copied her relatives. "Mozzarella sticks, please."

"What even are those?" Hermione asked as Ginny picked one up.

"Deep fried Scottish goodies," she replied, some of her good humour returning.

"American, not Scottish," Ron corrected his sister.

"Scottish." Ginny bit one.

"It's deep fried cheese: American. They have all the weird fatty dishes."

Ginny chewed some before retorting. "Edinburgh's delicacy is a deep fried Mars Bars. Scotland clearly wins."

Ron stopped eating to look at her. "Mars what?"

"Muggle chocolate bar, Harry showed me," Ginny answered before Hermione could.

"Huh," Ron contemplated this, then returned to the question at hand. "Really though, that's American."

"I think you're both missing the point." Hermione stepped in. "Which is: Ginny, why on earth are you eating that?"

Ron coughed something that sounded very much like, 'deep-fried-pickles-with-peanut-butter'. But before the argument could pick back up, their attention was drawn to the stage by Ripley reentering from behind the deep red curtains. "That was quick. Harry must be raising hell back there."

"No, Ripley doesn't look afraid. That's odd," Ginny said, squinting at the stage as the lights darted back to the flamboyantly dressed wizards. "He's eager, all but jumping about. He's excited about the speech?"

"He's excited about getting a furious Head Auror out of his brightly coloured hair," was Ron's vote. "I bet you anything Harry's going to come out filled with indignant, brutally sarcastic anger."

Ginny scoffed. Ripley reapplied the _sonorus_ , this time for the immediate area around him, and began quieting the crowd. "I'm not taking that bet."

"Attention, ATTENTION! Thank you." Ripley gave a large beam, arms again extended outward as the light danced around him. "Feel free to keep eating, but I ask that you stay silent except for applause and laughter. We're all in for a treat! This is a once in a blue moon event. I daresay that many of you bought a ticket for tonight simply to hear our keynote speaker. We didn't miss the fact that this dinner sold out immediately after news of his attendance hit the papers!"

"Thus, this chap needs no introduction." Ripley gave a low chuckle, as though he was sharing a secret with the audience. "Unlike his usual public appearances—rare as they may be—our speaker will not be discussing his own extraordinary history. Oh, I tried to push him into it! But the wizard would not be budged. So I reluctantly agreed he need not say a word about himself."

"Don't get me wrong." Ripley drew out every pause to dramatic effect. Ron rolled his eyes at Hermione. She shrugged back, half-smiling. Ginny was frowning at the stage, waiting for Harry to stroll out from behind the curtain. "The oft-overlooked witch about to be applauded deserves all the praise in the world. As our speaker will soon explain, Lily Marie Potter was an incredible woman. Not only did she bring to a close the first war against You Know Who, but her sacrifice indirectly assured a victory to the second!"

"Here to memorialise her heroic deeds is her son. Known as the Boy Who Lived and the Man Who Conquered, he is the youngest ever Head Auror as well as the youngest recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class in the modern age! Lord Potter-Black's many accomplishments can only be matched by his great humility. I am honoured that the typical recluse could join us this evening. Without further ado, join me in welcoming my good friend: Harry Potter!"

" _Good friend, my arse,_ " Ron mumbled to a quietly giggling Hermione. They and the rest of the crowd were applauding, waiting for the wizard to appear. " _Like Harry can stand the Lockhart clone. Also, Lord Potter-Black? Recluse? Whatever Ripley's on, I want some._ "

" _Shush!_ " Hermione murmured, pausing in her clapping to elbow him. She got her chuckling under control. " _Behave._ "

" _I always do,_ " Ron grinned. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, he frowned at the stage. Applause continued to ring about the chamber, but Ripley was peering around him, his beam becoming strained. " _Harry's taking his time._ "

"Harry?" Ripley coughed, smile fading. He squinted out at the crowd. The clapping softened as whispers rose. Ripley looked right at their table, becoming more confused when Ginny's puzzled expression met his. "Harry Potter? Ah, Mr. Potter?"

The curtains didn't ruffle.

* * *

"See, I never thought I'd live past twenty.  
Where I come from some get half as many.  
Ask anybody why we livin' fast and we laugh, reach for a flask,  
We have to make this moment last, that's plenty."  
—Alexander Hamilton, _Hamilton_

* * *

 **A/N:** Cue the main plot (at long last)!

I mean, it's not like the earlier story's now irrelevant. But 'what's past is prologue' and all that rot!


	14. A Ghost's Whisper

**A/N:** A huge thank you to Gambitized for all the help on the spiffy new summary!

To answer the main questions that popped up after the last chapter: the 'Hamilton' quotes don't necessarily mean Harry's dead, yep I overdid the foreshadowing, yep I took far too long to get to the main plot (sorry!), yep poor Ron's about to be hit with hella guilt, and yep I'm most definitely obsessed with musicals ("You've got me so helplleessss!" "Nnnooonnn- _stop!_ I will never be satisfied, SATISFIED!").

* * *

"'Is it love again?' said Voldemort, his snake's face jeering. 'Dumbledore's favourite solution, love, which he claimed conquered death, though love did not stop him falling from the tower and breaking like an old waxwork? Love, which did not prevent me stamping out your Mudblood mother like a cockroach, Potter — and nobody seems to love you enough to run forward this time and take my curse. So what will stop you dying now when I strike?'"

— _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

The applause soon weakened. Then died. Whispers turned to confused and annoyed mutters as no Wizarding Saviour appeared. Ron, upon seeing Hermione's equally confused look, lifted his communication watch and mumbled into it. " _Harry? Where are you?_ "

Silence.

"Harry Potter?" Ripley tried again with a loud call, now fidgeting.

" _Harry? Harry, answer me,_ " Hermione tried, lifting her necklace to her mouth. She frowned, switching to code names. " _Anyone with Bolt?_ "

A numb, cold feeling swept through Ron. He knew he was being paranoid, but he'd learned to listen to his instincts (which were currently screaming for him to jump out of his seat). Ginny was standing, not taking notice of the many gazes on her. Swiftly stepping between tables and chairs she made her way to the stage.

" _Who has eyes on Bolt?_ " Ron whispered, using code names as well. He kept an eye on Hermione, who was muttering into her necklace with a new urgency. " _Last confirmed sighting was at his table in the dining hall, with him heading to the bathroom. We were told by Ripley's assistant he'd then gone backstage. I need confirmation on the last. Who saw him there?_ "

No voice murmured out of the watch as Ginny strode towards Ripley. Her appearance had given way to a wave of applause, but she sent the audience an annoyed look and kept walking. As she entered the _sonorus_ ward her words soared around the hall: "Where's my husband?"

Ripley was insulted by her tone. "How should I know? I thought he was gallivanting around with you."

"Nellie said you called him away!"

"Nellie? Who's Nellie?"

"Nellie Lovett! Your, your—" Ginny paled, step halting. Ignoring the irritated Ripley she spun around to peer into the audience. Her hand lifted to her lips as she spoke into her ring (acting like a two-way mirror, like Ron's watch and Hermione's necklace, but personal rather than MLE issued). "Harry, where are you? Answer me right now!"

Nellie Lovett. Nellie freaking Lovett. The obvious slammed into Ron, leaving him reeling. It wasn't _like_ the Sweeney Todd name: it was the actual bloody name.

"Love, where are you!" Ginny was still speaking into her ring, voice rattling with worry.

Ron jolted to his feet, wand in hand. There was a bare moment when he hesitated in which way to turn: but Hermione was ordering the bathrooms to be checked, Ginny was panicking, she was on the stage, that bugger Ripley was gawking at her—he strode towards them, barely aware that his wife was right behind him, shouting into her necklace: " _Bolt's missing, no one leaves the Ministry! All floos and portkeys in and out are sealed unless by my direct order. Auror commands go through Skull; Skull, confirm this to me. Guards nearest the dining hall's male bathroom, search it and report back! This is code orange, to change to red in five minutes if Bolt remains silent. I'm ordering heightened security on Pauper and anyone clearance 8 or above!_ "

They sprinted up the stage's steps as Ginny switched from shouting into her uncommunicative ring to shouting questions at the angry host. Ron wasn't having any of that and cut through their argument. He did so by sprinting to Ripley and dragging him out of the _sonorous_ ward by his voluminous collar. Barely behind the curtains his impatience burst forth: "Where the hell is Harry?"

"I haven't the faint—no, stop!" Ripley exclaimed as Ron pushed him against the backstage wall, out of view of the audience. "I don't know where Potter is!"

"You didn't ask your assistant to get him?" Hermione paced up.

"Not at all. Why would I?" Ripley's smile was long gone as he stared at the three. "Did Patrick do something?"

"Patrick?" Ron gritted out, still holding the man by his collar.

"My assistant! I tell him not to talk to the talent, but he—"

Ron let go of the grip, spinning around to the witches. Ripley was now ignored apart to check he didn't run off. "Lovett's a fake name from the Sweeney Todd story. I knew it earlier, but I…it's the wench who bakes people into pies. She'll be long gone by now, no doubt! Tell me there's news on Harry?"

Hermione shook her head, worry increasing as she held the necklace to her ear. "The nearest bathroom's empty, they're checking the others. All exits are sealed and there's no sign of him. He hasn't left the building."

" _This is Skull, temporarily taking over command from Bolt,_ " Susan spoke out from both the watch and the necklace. " _This might be a false alarm. I'm not with Bolt but I saw him a bit ago. Noticed he'd been gone awhile so popped into the loo by the dining hall. Bolt was fine and with two others. Said the one in a wheelchair had a medical condition and needed to get to St. Mungo's. He authorised the emergency floo, though he didn't leave himself. Floo personnel, confirm to me who went through._ "

"He was with who?" Hermione's eyes narrowed, matching Ron's own. But before either could speak into their communicators, another voice popped in.

" _Confirmation on the emergency floo,_ " came Diggle, " _used about twenty minutes ago at 8:40. It wasn't taken by Bolt—it was used by Alan Turpin and his carer Benny Barker. They were authorised to go through to St. Mungo's by Bolt and Skull._ "

" _Whoa. Whoa whoa WHOA!_ " Dmitri's voice racketed out. " _Turpin and Barker? Judge Turpin and Benjamin Barker? Those are characters from the Sweeney Todd musical! Barker is Todd's original name and Turpin's the judge he wanted to behead! You let them in the floo?_ "

" _They had authorisation!_ " Diggle exclaimed right back.

" _They're obviously fake names!_ "

" _EVERYONE, QUIET!_ " Hermione shouted into her necklace, rattled. " _This is for emergency news and updates only, not bickering! Now. Hit-wizards Stone and Bacon, get to St. Mungo's. The two are surely gone, but get the surveillance. Bat, you're positive these are fake names? We have a third pseudonym, 'Nellie Lovett', who had told us Bolt had gone backstage._ "

" _Absolutely fake,_ " was Dmitri's tense reply. " _They're laughing at us._ "

Ginny had slid down the wall, one hand over her mouth and the other resting on her stomach. Ron felt another pull of indecision, but she looked more angry than frightened. Though she was his pregnant baby sister, he wasn't that concerned over her 'fragility' when she looked about ready to kill. Yes, as a family member she shouldn't be hearing this, but the exact same could be said for him and Hermione. But all of this did remind him of the unwelcome member of their party. With a hard tug of Ripley's arm and a push out of the curtains, the host joined the shouting masses being herded into groups in the dining hall.

Hermione had the expression she only got when every answer in her head led straight to a battle or a ferocious three-headed dog. Ron could spot the exact moment she made her decision. Her voice was steady but rapid as she spoke into her necklace. " _This is code red, Bolt's been compromised. Skull and Tunnel, get to the backstage of the dining hall immediately. Until the Pensieve surveillance has been viewed, we're assuming this was either the Sweenies or copycats! Due to the changed MO, it may be copy—_ "

" _It's the Sweenies._ "

Both women spun around at Ron's sudden interruption. Even he was surprised he'd spoken. It was like his mouth was moving on its own, as though it'd come up with the answer while his crowded brain remained a step behind.

" _It isn't a copycat._ " Ron swallowed, mind racing with beginnings and tails of thoughts. He finally caught up to his mouth and captured one truth, one realisation that stuck out like a roaring Horntail. Every word became that much harder to form as a bigger picture took hold. Because it had been obvious, so ridiculously obvious. " _Harry had blue powder on his arm. It wasn't paint._ "

The witches stared at him, not following.

"I've read those reports a million times," Ron was saying more to himself then to them (he'd stopped talking into his watch), not knowing what sentence would come next. Yet he knew with an absolute certainty that he was right. He was just too late for it to do any good. "Snackboxes. Lottie Fawcett's stolen Skiving Snackboxes!"

"Ron, what are you—"

"It turns into blue powder!" Ron broke into a pace, swiping hair back from his brow. Stupefaction had turned to frenzied motion. "How could I be so stupid? They were leaving calling cards a mile wide and—bloody hell, they wanted us to know they'd taken him—snuck him out somehow, like the Wizengamot—"

"RON!" Hermione grabbed his shoulders, forcing his rant and nervous pacing to come to an abrupt halt. "What are you talking about? What does the powder do?"

Ron stared at her blankly. There was more frightened comprehension on Ginny's face, which made his confused and frazzled thoughts remember two things: Hermione hadn't been spending months pouring over every detail of the Sweeney cases, and she wasn't the sort who'd be familiar with Skiving Snackboxes. He also dimly realised there were cries of questions coming from his watch. Mutely, he put it to his mouth.

" _The Snackboxes, the powder was an invention Charlotte Fawcett had on her when she was kidnapped by the Sweenies._ " In contrast to the careening words a minute ago, it now took an effort to speak. " _They're experimental. It—_ "

'That wasn't a normal headache!' Ron remembered with panic. 'The symptoms worsen as time passes, didn't George say that? It was enough to make Harry admit he was in pain!'

" _—it gave Harry the migraine. They knew he was going to excuse himself for being sick, they must've been waiting,_ " Ron managed to get out after a tense pause, trying not to sound as furious at his blindness as he felt. " _Fawcett's Snackboxes weren't ready for production. Without the antidote, the pain keeps increasing. I, I don't know how much. But it matches Harry's symptoms and only Fawcett's captors would've had this. It's not a copycat._ "

Hermione was thinking rapidly. He could practically see the gears churning in her head. "George didn't have copies of these prototypes?"

Ron shook his head. "Asked him then. Fawcett had the only versions."

"Headaches," Ginny at last spoke up, her voice calm but fragile. She stared at her ring, arm circling her belly. Ron felt another urge to get her as far away as possible, but knew that she'd resist and that he didn't have time for a shouting match. "The _Prophet_ 's mentioned that Harry gets headaches. Anyone could've known that he…that he wouldn't find it strange."

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She'd nervously rubbed her mouth so much that her lipstick was gone. She spoke into her necklace. " _The Sweenies took Bolt and have likely left the Ministry. If I don't have the surveillance footage soon I'LL be the one baking people into pies! Skull, I know you're busy with the Aurors, but I need your statement now. Tunnel, why aren't you here already!"_

"I'm here, I'm here!" Came Diggle's huffing voice as he hurried through the curtain. He looked red from the run. "Was out securing people in the Atrium and—"

"What did you see at the floo?" Ron impatiently cut in, resisting the urge to shout.

Diggle opened his mouth in what looked to be a sneering retort, before realising that three angry war heroes were facing him and twitching for their wands. "Ah, Potter wasn't anywhere. He confirmed the travel through the comm, which Bones seconded."

" _What the hell did you see?_ " Ron repeated with heat. "You let two people with fake names leave. Who were they!"

"I, uh," Diggle stumbled, taken aback enough that he didn't protest Ron's questions, "they weren't unusual. Turpin was in a wheelchair, an old man who was fast asleep. Barker was his carer. Talked about how the health concern was likely a false alarm."

Which was when Susan cascaded behind the curtain as well, panting with hair a mess, her formal dress hiked up. "Sorry! Was, was trying to corral hundreds of angry people, and reign in the Aurors."

Hermione had grown darker throughout Diggle's statement. "Susan, what—"

Susan waved, catching her breath and straightening. "My partner and I noticed Harry leaving your table. He looked queasy when he entered the closest bathroom, though we returned to the dining hall. When Ripley began speaking at 8:30 we checked on him, to make sure he was okay and to let him know appetisers were about to begin. Harry was by the sinks, looking better. He was with two people: 'Turpin', an elderly man asleep in a wheelchair, and 'Barker', a middle-aged man who said he was Turpin's carer. Both were white and of medium build, and Barker had an English accent. I was told that Turpin had been having breathing problems, but that this had eased up and he'd fallen asleep." This was the first time Susan hesitated. "This sounded unhealthy and I moved to wake him. Harry stopped me and said he'd feel more comfortable if a professional saw to him. He authorised the emergency floo to St. Mungo's and shooed all four of us towards the exit, saying that he was heading back to you."

Ron closed his eyes, tilting his head back as the telling facts washed over him. "You last saw Harry in the bathroom and left him there alone."

"Yes."

"Did he seem strange to you?"

"No. No, except," Susan faltered, "I wasn't expecting him to look as well as he did. When I saw him the second time he wasn't pale and had recovered."

Ron and Hermione shared a dark look. He recalled that most people didn't have experience with polyjuice like they did, even within the MLE. "Turpin was asleep?" A nod. Hermione steadied herself before addressing the fidgeting Diggle. "Did you check them for glamours or other appearance alterers before they left?"

"Course not. That's the point of the emergency floo, isn't it? To be expedient?"

"Did they have the right passes to get through without a check, ones that matched their wands?"

Diggle paused. "What?"

"All-access or MLE passes…" Ron hedged off at Diggle's expression.

"Potter authorised it!" Diggle insisted. "Said so through the comm."

"Merlin!" Ginny's head sunk into her hands, braid tangled in her fingers. "How are you an Auror?"

Diggle straightened and sent her a pompous look. "Might I ask why a civilian reporter is even here? She ought to be interrogated with the rest!"

"Would you shut up?" Ron said brusquely (while sending a glare at a wide-eyed Susan), but reminded himself that hexing his coworkers would make things worse. Besides, Ginny seemed near enough to doing that. He turned to Hermione with a gritting tone. "Three kidnappers then, with 'Lovett' and the Harry imposter still possibly in the Ministry. Judge Turpin was the main target in the story, doesn't take a genius to work the rest out. BONES! Did you happen to notice if the 'old man' was breathing?" he said brutally, sarcasm seeping in with his clenching worry. The last thing he cared about right now was being rude.

Susan paled, the full situation hitting her. "I—yes. Yes, he was alive. Oh, oh god…"

"Putting aside the monumental screw up of not checking for glamours," Ron sneered at Diggle, who looked ready to protest, "which _no_ , you moron! I don't care if it's explicitly stated or not, IT'S COMMON SENSE! BECAUSE SOMEONE CLAIMED TO BE HARRY YOU LET THEM BYPASS ALL SECURITY?"

"It's against the rules to check!" Diggle huffed back, indignation swelling. Ginny was still sending him a look that could kill. "Would slow down something meant for emergencies. They had the proper authorisation!"

" _You ruddy bast—_ "

"BE QUIET!" Hermione glared at them both. Susan was looking on with a haunted look. "This is bad enough without in-fighting. There will be an investigation of how this happened, so would you both focus on the matter at hand!"

Ron felt a thump of guilt, having been swept away with anger. He cleared his throat, trying to clench back the myriad emotions he didn't have time to deal with. "You're right, sorry. Two are still in the Ministry. Maybe. Though with how much time's past, I wouldn't hold too much on that. Except if…if the imposter's…"

Hermione cried out, following the thought and wrenching for her necklace to shout into it. " _One of the Sweenies might be impersonating Bolt! He's considered armed and especially dangerous. Do not trust him or follow his orders. Hit-wizard beta team, sound the alarm to leading international agencies. Start with the ICW and go from there: someone is possibly controlling or has polyjuiced into Harry Potter and has his real wand and badge for identification. If he shows up, I want him stunned! NO LETHAL FORCE, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?_ "

Ginny had paled throughout the pronouncement. Ron was cursing himself for having let her stay this long, but there had been no time to breathe (let alone escort her to the floo) and he'd be damned if he shoved his sister out into the chaos of the main floor. He'd moved to approach her, but had stopped each time at her dark and measuring look. He had an idea of what caused it and, as it matched the guilt churning in his chest, couldn't bring himself to face it alongside everything else.

Ron massaged his head, the weight of the situation sinking in more heavily with each passing moment. "I doubt interrogating the people here will do much good. The—the powder. Harry wiped some off his arm in the reception area. Diggle! See if you can find samples. We were by the southern wall when it happened."

Diggle had recovered some of his composure. "You aren't my boss, Weasley."

"No, but I am." Susan stepped in, still shaken and with guilt lurking behind her stubborn tone. "Diggle, find another Auror and sweep the area." Diggle gave a deep frown but acquiesced. Susan slumped as soon as he'd left. "This is a disaster. Hermione, would it be better if I appeased the press or helped in the search?"

Hermione collected her thoughts. "You should be in front of the media, I can handle things here. The last thing we need is hysteric panic." At Susan's further slump she was given an apologetic glance. "I know you don't like it, but it's best."

"No, of course." Susan forced herself to straighten. "Press conference with furious reporters and vague answers, no problem. And…Ginny, I'm sorry I haven't said anything. I can escort you out to—"

"I'm not leaving," Ginny said promptly. Susan opened her mouth to protest but Ron met her gaze and shook his head, an idea having come to mind. When Hermione also nodded Susan stopped her protest (albeit reluctantly) and moved out of the backstage area.

"We'll find him, don't worry!" was her call as she swept out of the curtains.

Ron's mind was on another matter. Everything was distressing and had gone to hell, but there was one huge immediate issue that surpassed all else. "I need to talk to George."

Hermione stared at him aghast. "Harry just vanished and you want to what?"

"He was in pain," impatience again cut into Ron's voice. "Harry admitted to being in pain! You know what that means. That was as much of a 'headache' as a _sectumsempra_ 's a paper cut. He was drugged, most likely by the Snackboxes. If it's all the same to you, I'd like to know how bad that pain's going to get and if it's dangerous. Which means questioning George!"

Hermione deflated before his eyes. He felt a stab of guilt but couldn't bring himself to back down. "You're right, but you're needed here. Contact him through the mirror or—"

"Ginny needs to get out," Ron cut in bluntly, gesturing at his outraged sister. "There's nothing else I can do until we get the Pensieve surveillance."

"I'm not leaving!" Ginny burst forth. "I'm staying right here until Harry's back, do you hear me?"

"Why are you so stubborn?" Ron steamed at her. "We need to do our jobs and you need to get behind protective wards!"

"WHY YOU—"

"GINNY! Ginny," Hermione said over the shouting siblings, commanding order with her voice. "We don't know what's going on right now. When we do, you'll be the first to know. We're keeping the Ministry almost entirely on lockdown, but news is going to filter out. Do you want Teddy or Jamie to hear about this over the radio? Susan's going to be announcing something soon and there's surely already rumours."

Ginny's anger quelled at once, fury dying back into fright. Ron gave a silent thanks to Hermione for siding with him.

"I'm not trying to upset you," Hermione said to Ginny gently. "But I think it's best if you went to your kids, don't you think?"

Ginny opened her mouth before closing it. Looking out at the still-frenzied crowd she mutely nodded: not pleased but reluctantly agreeing.

Hermione gave a strained smile. She hesitated a bare moment, looking lost as well. Shaking her head she spoke into her necklace. " _Whoever's with Percy and Audrey Weasley, expedite their questioning before leading them to MLE headquarters. I'll shortly be there myself. Those in command of the floo, Ron Weasley and Ginny Potter both have permission to leave, and the former has permission to reenter. Check their wands, badge, pass—the whole drill. We don't want another disaster!_ "

Ron thought this was all going too slowly. He grabbed Ginny's protesting arm and pulled her to the curtain. "I'll send everyone to the Burrow, it's the most isolated from the press."

"Give Rosie a hug from me!" Hermione shouted out to them. "Tell her I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you!"

"Love you too!" Ron kept tugging Ginny along for a few more steps before, when they'd reached the floor of the main dining hall, she wrenched herself from his grip.

"I'm not a child." Ginny sent him a haughty look. Though she did give an uncertain glance at her ring.

"Then hurry up," Ron sped up and darted around the crowds of protesting guests and corralling Aurors. "If you aren't with me, you might get stuck in this ruckus!"

She didn't answer, but did match his pace. He gave a single worried thought that he really shouldn't be making his pregnant and frightened sister run around the Ministry, but a look made it clear that she was more pissed off and bewildered than tired and terrified.

Even with the chaos and clawing crowds, Ron became aware of the all-too familiar feeling of gazes on him. There were shouted questions as well, alongside bursts of light from flashing cameras. Luckily, most of these were stopped by peeved hit-wizards or Aurors.

Ginny seemed impervious to the crowds, near running into them once or twice. She likewise took little notice of the 'barriers' where Ron flashed his badge and hurried them through the people waiting in lock-down.

* * *

Ron was happy that security was now competent. Absolutely. He entirely understood having their wands and badge/pass checked, bundling them through the glamour check, scouring them for weapons or extra wands (he received a few unamused glances for his 'innovative' shoes, even with his badge), and taking a light dose of veritaserum each (they received sheepish glances for this one: but Dmitri had taken over floo control, so Ron wasn't altogether shocked).

He wasn't as thrilled that the barmy thing took so much valuable time. Nor was he impressed at the wait afterwards, where Ginny and he stood about as her pass was double-checked. Extra slowly. It would have been more bearable if there wasn't an awkward silence between them. Or if the two hit-wizards in the small room had piped up. But the latter pair were more awe-struck than intimidating. Ron couldn't figure out if their stares was because of who they were (and who had just vanished), or if it was due to the stiflingly tense silence between the siblings.

Ron had tried to break it a few times. Telling Ginny that they'd do everything, that _he'd_ do absolutely everything, and that it really was best she be with her kids. It was about then that the hit-wizards quickly excused themselves, hurrying away. For lack of a topic (and lack of response) Ron apologised for not getting her out sooner, what with the start of the investigation.

At the apology, she stiffened, having been leaning against the wall while her brother paced.

"He didn't want to go," Ginny said tersely, breaking her uneasy silence.

Ron halted both his pacing and nervous talking. She still stared straight ahead, bouncing on a foot.

"He didn't want to go," she repeated. Her features seemed to be chiseled out of marble. "Harry hates this sort of thing. So what did you do? You schemed with Shacklebolt behind his back."

"Gin, I—"

" _That isn't my name!_ " Ginny's teeth clenched, still not looking at her brother. Her anger returned back to the surreal calm. "You know Harry probably better than I do. It's fine, I get that. You knew exactly how to make him agree to this gala. Publish a story which presses one of his biggest buttons: smart, very smart. Bring his parents into it and he wouldn't know up from down! He'd just want the story to disappear."

"I, I really didn't mean—"

" _Shut up!_ " she all but snarled, spinning to glare at him. "What I don't get? Why you would do that. Let me guess, jealousy again? Couldn't stand seeing Harry promoted over you?"

"Merlin, no! That has nothing to do with—"

"Or is it that bs about being 'lonely' without him as your partner? Ooo, poor Ron," Ginny said bitterly. "Congratulations. If you wanted to lose your best friend, this was exactly how to go about it!"

Ron's mouth fluttered open and shut, numbness spreading out from his chest. He couldn't move as his sister stood on tip-toes, getting uncomfortably close to him.

"When he gets back," Ginny hissed, her glare and unbundled hair grazing his face, "the first thing out of your mouth had better be an apology. You treat him like he's a doormat to trod upon! Harry's wonderful and forgiving, but even he has a line. And I promise you, _I promise you_ , if you try another stunt like this that friendship will be over!"

"It, I'm—"

"You think this is funny?"

"NO! Of course not."

There was a deep silence. Her breath was crinkled and heavy. This close, he could see the roughness around her eyes and the pinched look as though she was about to cry.

"You know I didn't mean this to happen," Ron said softly, wishing he could find the right words. "I'm so sorry."

"Harry tried to talk me out of going." Ginny's voice had returned to the unnerving calm as she took a step back from her brother, shoving off his hand from her shoulder. "Wanted us to play hooky. I was going to agree, but I felt the speech would be good for him. Finally talk about his parents, you know? Well, his mum. Thought it was a step in the right direction."

Ron gave a weighty swallow, his hand dangling awkwardly between them.

Ginny shook her head, blinking rapidly. Getting ahold of herself she continued. "I'm not angry at you. I dragged him to the gala too, after all, and neither of us are seers. Harry will be back soon, so that's not an issue. But take my warning to heart. If you care about your friendship with him, get over yourself and make amends."

Ron's numb thoughts trailed from Sweeney case to Sweeney case…all unsolved, all without clues…the convulsing potion with Fawcett, the drug that might still be hurting Harry…no bodies. All open cases. He took a deep, swaying breath. "Yeah. Yeah, Ginny. I'll apologise as soon as I see him."

Her shoulders relaxed a touch and she gave him the barest smile. "Good. I'm tired of Harry plotting how to get back at you. He's sorry about the acromantula, you know. Also refuses to apologise. Why are you both so stubborn?"

* * *

Finally through security, Ginny went through the floo first. When Ron then emerged from the fireplace at his brother's, he found his relatives were back from trick-or-treating and were sorting candy in the living room. He also arrived just in time to see Ginny tackle Jamie and Teddy into a frantic bearhug.

"What the—" George began, only to have Albus plucked out of his arms by the fearful mum, "uh, Ginny?"

"Ron?" Angelina said with equal bafflement, as the man in question had scooped up a delightedly cheering Rose and held her close to his chest. "What are you two doing here?"

"Mummy, no strangle!" Jamie was struggling to get back to his candy as Fred and Roxanne looked on curiously.

"Aunt Ginny?" Teddy said with more hesitance. His surprise had turned to concern, as the woman who'd pounced him with a hug was shaking. "What's going on?"

"Dada!" Rosie babbled, not questioning anything. Ron gave a silent thanks to his wonderful daughter and buried his face in her hair, catching his breath properly for the first time that evening. "Lookie, candy!"

"What's wrong?" George stood up. He was unusually grim for someone in a Big Foot costume. "I'd ask why you aren't at the gala, but I'm more concerned about why you're hugging your kids like—"

"You haven't heard anything?" Ron cut in. He'd intended on barging in here and screaming at George, but he didn't have the energy. He felt like he did after a rough apparation: stretched and pulled until his limbs were left dangling.

George and Angelina shared a bewildered look. Ginny was still strangling her kids while Fred and Roxanne had shrugged and returned to trading candy. Ron, taking count of how many children were in the room, made an effort to keep his voice calm. But he could feel the anger swelling through him as his sapped energy grew.

"Something…something happened. George, I have a few questions about an invention of yours." Reluctantly setting his daughter back by her candy (with a murmured, "I love you so, so much") Ron straightened and gestured to the hallway. "It isn't appropriate for kids, you get me? How 'bout we go to the kitchen."

The couple exchanged another glance. Ron had more than enough experience to see that a silent argument was taking place, but soon Angelina had acquiesced.

"Yeah, sure." George followed Ron out of the room, only leaving when he saw that Angelina had moved over to Ginny. Leaving the hallway into the kitchen and closing the door behind them, he turned to face his brother. "Now what's—"

"The Snackboxes Fawcett was working on last Spring, the ones that malfunctioned?" Frustration permeated Ron's words. "You're telling me everything you know about them."

"What?" George stepped back from his angry brother, hitting the door. "Oh-kay, I see you have your Auror face on. What happened at the gala?"

" _The prototype Snackboxes!_ Leaves a blue powder after it's been applied, yeah?"

"What are you—"

" _Is that right!_ "

"Yes! Yes, that's right." George gaped at him. "Why's Ginny sobbing over her kids?"

"What about the symptoms?" Ron ignored the question. "You said they got more extreme over time. How much time?"

"I don't know," George said in bewilderment, stuck against the door. "I guess it swelled up. The worst would be at, say an hour max? How about you tell me why you and Gin came flying out of the floo!"

Ron forced himself to calm down, having to remind himself that George wasn't the villain here. "The symptoms themselves. Say someone had Fawcett's altered Snackbox that induces a headache. First off, did that exist? Secondly, an hour later, how bad would the headache be without the cure?"

"Fine! Ignore my questions. Yes, there was a headache one," George was only growing more and more confused, his humour having temporarily left. "A right nightmare to test, let me tell you. But after an hour? I wouldn't want to be that person. Though it might be better than you interrogating me."

" _How bad would it be!_ " Ron grabbed the front of his brother's shirt, impatience steaming through his common sense.

"Merlin, I don't know! Uh, a nightmare of a migraine." George tried to remember. "I'm talking chills, dizziness, throwing up. Course, it'd feel like someone was taking a hammer to your head, so you wouldn't much notice the rest."

"IS IT DANGEROUS?"

"No, no! Just hurts like hell. What's this about? Did it turn up at the Ministry?" George shook off his younger brother's hold, unsettled. "Wait, hold on. Your questions. You aren't telling me someone took it?"

Ron took a step back, expression pale. "Not sure."

"You sound pretty sure!" George retorted.

"Harry, Harry might've been dosed with it. I don't know." Ron drew a shaky hand through his hair. His brothers' eyes widened further. "Will this thing wear off by itself?"

"Definitely." George now looked queasy. "It wouldn't last more than two hours. But look, I can grab the antidote and run with you to the Ministry—"

"Won't do any good." Ron took a low, thick breath. "Unless you know where Harry is. Still, least that's one less thing to worry about."

"What's going o…ooo…oh hell." George froze, thoughts visibly connecting. "Lottie's Snackboxes? They could've only shown up if…if…" Ron could see the moment true realisation hit him. The older wizard took a deep inhale, blowing it out slowly. "You don't know where Harry is."

Ron mutely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"He disappeared at the gala?"

Another nod.

George only looked more disbelieving. "So you're, you're honestly telling me he vanished in the Ministry, surrounded by hordes of Aurors."

"Only realised Harry was missing when he didn't show for the speech," Ron said. "He had a blazing migraine and blue 'paint' on his arm. Went off, never came back."

George stared at him.

"I've gotta go," Ron's voice was heavy but had quickened. "I found out the Snackbox won't kill him: that's something. But George, listen. I don't think we're in danger, but news is already getting out. The press' going to be banging down doors. Take Angie, Ginny, and all the kids to the Burrow. Spread the word and get as much of the family there as possible, it being out of the way will be a buffer. Percy and Audrey will be there soon, and Hermione and I will check on Rose as soon as we can."

"The press?" George repeated, struggling to get his mind around the events.

"This…" Ron struggled for the words, "you didn't see the panic at the Ministry. This might get bad. Even if Harry's just taking a kip somewhere, there's near a hundred furious reporters and even more politicians in lock-down. Keep everyone out of the way, especially Ginny! I messed up and let her hear too much of the initial news. She doesn't need anything else to happen right now. I don't know what they're going to broadcast, but it won't be good, so keep the kids away from WWN."

Finished with that Ron bustled around his shocked brother, racing back into the living room. Rosie was swept up into another hug, giggling at her dad's murmured reassurances. The Potters kids plus Teddy had long since given up on getting Ginny to relinquish her embrace. Angelina was looking on with an uneasy expression, and even the twins had set down their candy and were whispering to each other.

"Ron…" Angelina hedged after he'd been there for a time.

"George will tell you." Ron gave his baffled but cheery daughter a last kiss. "I've got to get back to the Ministry. Rosie, will you be a good girl for your aunt and uncle?"

"Yeah yeah!"

"We'll take care of her, don't worry," George said seriously, having recovered and had followed Ron to now stand in the doorway. Ron gave him a grateful nod, turning back to his wide-eyed daughter.

"Your mum really wants to see you," he murmured to her. "But we're…we're trying to fix something. We'll be back as soon as we can. We love you, sweetie. So, so much."

"Luv you," Rose stuck her thumb in her mouth, the smallest of frowns appearing.

And god, it killed him to leave her. He also wanted to hug Ginny, say something, but his sister had that look back on her face and an attempt to distract her from her kids would surely get him hexed. So though everything was screaming for him not to, with a last look around he took the floo back to the Ministry.

* * *

" _Winter, I'm back,_ " Ron said into his watch, tossing his wand and badge at the attending hit-wizard to check. It was far easier to enter the Ministry than it was to exit. " _Asked George: Snackboxes are painful, not dangerous. Wears off after two hours._ "

" _Thank Merlin,_ " came Hermione's reply, her relief clear. " _Come up to my office. Did you send everyone to the Burrow?_ "

" _George's taking them there._ Yeah, thanks." Ron took back his items, rushing back into the Ministry proper. The crowds were still as big as before and just as pissed off. The MLE personnel trying to keep order were even more on edge. There were some fights scattered about, mainly from reporters breaking for the exit (only to be tackled by overzealous Aurors). " _See the questioning's going splendidly. Pensieve?_ "

" _Don't get me started,_ " was the grumble. " _We've gotten the security footage. Tracing it back from when the two unknowns went through the emergency floo. Matches with Skull's and Tunnel's testimony: Turpin was either asleep or unconscious. Didn't seem hurt, at least. We also traced back to see when Bolt got dosed: Barker shook his hand in the Atrium, applying the Snackbox. It was right in front of us._ "

Ron took a swift inhale, catching his breath as he waited for the lift. He jabbed the button again, sending a glare at a few staring Junior Aurors who ducked their heads and hurried on. " _Seen the footage from the bathroom yet?_ "

" _Just about to. Hurry up._ "

"I'm trying," Ron muttered, flinging into the elevator before the doors had fully opened. The ride up seemed horrendously slow, even with the bucking movement. He tried to ignore the thoughts sneaking into his mind, chiding himself for the sick and guilty feeling filling his gut. He'd have plenty of time to chide himself later, once this was all figured out. Still, Ginny's words were ricocheting through him. It wouldn't have hit him nearly as hard if he hadn't already been kicking himself. "What's with this bloody lift!"

Apparently shouting and slamming his hand against the wall worked, as he came to a halt. Doors reopening he darted out, cascading down the hall. Paying no attention to the frantic or pacing people around him, he made a beeline for his wife's office.

"I'm here, _I'm here!_ " Ron shouted, bursting through the door. Adam Vance blinked at him before groaning, pointing mutely at the Pensieve which had been set up in front of the main desk. "Right, thanks. Hermione in there?"

Adam nodded. "Shout if you need another view, I'll hear you." He gestured at a shelf of vials by him, surely filled with different footages of the night. "She's started the main footage."

Ron wasted no more time. Hurrying to the Pensieve he leaned over the side, looking down to see porcelain walls, milk-white sinks, and a brunette nibbling her fingernails. In another moment his body had tipped over, falling into the memory.

As Ron clunked to the floor, the woman gave a start before relaxing. Hermione's entire face softened as she helped him up. Taking a glance around, he saw the bathroom was otherwise deserted. "Rosie's fine. Gorging herself on candy."

Hermione gave a strained smile. Her eyes were red.

"Ginny's…Ginny. About strangled her kids. Told George an overview, they're heading to the Burrow."

"That's, that's good." She nodded jerkily. "The testimonies were verified and Sue's about to make an announcement. With this memory, Harry should enter any minute now."

There was a soft silence.

"I love you."

"Love you too." She gave a weak smile, tugging at her long skirt. "I've just realised I should have asked you for a change of clothes. I'm not trying a transfiguration with all the enchantments on this silly thing."

Ron didn't process the statement immediately. Then he clued in, eyeing her extravagant dress for the first time since dinner. He'd completely forgotten their formal attire. "I'm sure there's spare clothes somewhere in the office. We'll check when we're done here."

"Yes. Yes, you're right." She leaned against him tiredly. He rested his head against hers, wondering which of them was more tense. Something he hadn't been meaning to say came bubbling up.

"When we were waiting at security, Ginny said…well, she said…" Ron stumbled off. His jaw felt stiff. "Never mind. Doesn't matter right now."

Hermione made a noise like she was about to say something, but was cut off by the door opening. In seeing a familiar head of messy hair they straightened. Ron was startled: had Harry really looked that sick? Or maybe he was emphasising things now in hindsight. Whatever it was, Harry groggily walking to the sinks set Ginny's words to harsh reality.

Ron rubbed his mouth, unsteady on his feet. What was that Ginny'd said, that he walked all over Harry? Poked and prodded his weaknesses while being too stubborn to apologise?

"There's one person already in here," Hermione whispered as Memory Harry turned on the water and swept some on his face. He looked pale. Clammy. Ron noted it was the centre of his forehead that he was rubbing, not his scar. This didn't cheer him up much. "I should have mentioned. It's 'Barker', the one who took the floo with 'Turpin'. He's in the stall nearest the door and has been here at least ten minutes."

"Let me guess, he's also the bloke who dosed Harry in the Atrium?" Hermione nodded in affirmation. "So we're still at three suspects, including Lovett and the Harry imposter. Think Lovett could also be the imposter?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Some of us were figuring out the times when you were gone. Harry left the dining hall at around 8 and Lovett came up to us about fifteen minutes after that. Susan only checked on Harry at 8:30. That'd give Lovett ten possible minutes in here."

"Plenty of time. Two or three kidnappers, then. Harry's speech was supposed to be at 9, right? When was the emergency floo activated?"

"8:40," was Hermione's sigh. "With Barker already here that gives him half an hour to incapacitate Harry. They had this planned perfectly."

Meanwhile, Harry was wadding up tissues from the dispenser. Drenching them with water, they were pressed against his forehead. His frown deepened. Muttering a low curse he tossed the disintegrating tissues in the bin. After a flush, the unknown man exited his stall.

Ron turned his gaze to the stranger as he washed his hands. Barker was scrawny, with dark blond hair and a flimsy moustache. The Senior Auror vaguely recalled seeing him in the parade of people who'd talked to them earlier that evening. The guy gave Harry a once-over.

Seeing as how Harry stiffened, he'd noticed the other wizard's gaze. Ron could read his brother-in-law's thoughts on his face: was the man a reporter? A fan who'd sing his praises? A groupie who'd gape at him? There was faint recognition, too, but Harry didn't seem to connect the stranger to the Atrium.

The man paused in washing up and quirked his head in a half-nod. "Mr. Potter. Pleased to meet you."

Harry gave him a second glance, surprised at the lack of gawking. Likely due to his migraine he brushed the oddness aside. "Err, you as well? Sorry, feeling out of sorts."

"Of course, pardon me." Barker turned back to washing up.

Ron and Hermione gave each other a startled glance, having thought this would trigger something. Harry, having grabbed another tissue, transfigured it into a washcloth. He dropped his wand beside the sink (the side opposite the lingering stranger, the silent observers noticed). Soaking and folding the cloth he placed it on his forehead. Following this he gave a small sigh of relief, accompanied with a wry glance at the stranger. The man, who'd been taking his good time drying his hands, noticed the look.

"Right, sorry," the sheepish man gave the Head Auror a disarming grin. He put his gloves on. "Surprised to run into you. Great honour, of course, but I was wondering…I know you aren't feeling well, but my son's a huge fan. Wants to be in Gryffindor just like you! If it wouldn't be too much trouble?"

Harry relaxed as the man pulled out a fountain pen and stub of parchment. His suspicion drifted away. "Sure, I guess. Give me a mo."

He dropped the washcloth to the sink, drying his hands on his jacket.

"I really am sorry to bother you," Barker said apologetically, his expression leaping as Harry took the parchment. "But I couldn't let the opportunity pass. Timmy wouldn't let me live it down!"

"Don't worry about it." Harry unclasped the pen, a small sigh escaping him. "I don't usually sign things, but I know how kids can get. When my godson met Viktor Krum he practically jumped the poor bloke." He paused, biro lifted. "Your son's name is Timmy?"

"Can you make it out to Timothy? Timmy's more of a pet name," Barker chattered on as Harry scribbled. "I'm Daniel, by the way. It is a great pleasure."

"Hmm. Good to meet you," Harry murmured, finishing up. From his vaguely pained expression, this was the last thing he wanted to be doing. "Now, I'm sorry, but…"

"I'll leave you alone!" Barker said boisterously, reading over the parchment he'd gotten back with cheer. Glancing at it, Ron couldn't see why. Harry's penmanship was as much of a mess as usual, so the so-called 'Timmy' would have a grand time translating.

Harry returned the other wizard's smile weakly, turning again to the sink. Pressing the washcloth back against his forehead he winced, the hot water no longer helping. He seemed worse than he had a minute ago. This raised all kinds of alarms for the watching couple.

"Barker's taking his time," Hermione said. Barker was stowing away parchment and pen at a turtle's pace.

"He's waiting for something." Ron returned to looking at Harry. When he did his heartbeat quickened: his best friend was bent over the sink, clenching the washcloth with his eyes screwed up in pain. "Merlin. That look like a headache to you?"

Hermione had no chance to answer, for Harry dropped the cloth and bolted for a stall. A moment later they heard him being sick. The observing couple would have hurried to him, but something else caught their attention. Barker stopped fiddling with the parchment as soon as Harry raced off. His movements became quick and deliberate. Darting to the now-unoccupied sink he sent off a silent spell back to the main door before pulling a small bag from his pocket. Taking the discarded washcloth he placed it in the bag, letting it soak up the foreign liquid inside. The bathroom door opened and closed, not showing anyone entering. Meanwhile, taking out the washcloth, Barker only touched it with his gloved hand. The wizard grabbed Harry's wand and vanished the bag.

"He signalled a partner to enter," Ron said hollowly, kneading his brow. Hermione gave a furious growl. "My bet's Lovett."

Barker was hurrying to the stalls. As he went, his expression became one of concern. "Mr. Potter?" The criminal crouched next to the sick man. He held out the washcloth. "I called for an attendant. Take this, it should help."

" _Get Ginny,_ " Harry wheezed, covering his mouth. He didn't touch the offered cloth. "My wife. She, she—"

"She's coming," Barker said sympathetically. Grabbing Harry's shoulder he tugged him to his swaying feet. The washcloth was placed in his unresisting hand. "There's a bout of dragon flu going around. You'll be alright, lad. Can you contact someone? How about you wash your face?"

"No." Harry put a hand to his temple to steady himself. He used his other (the one still holding the drenched cloth) to try and push the wizard away. In the small time this took, he swayed with increasing illness. "Not, not Ginny. Get Ron. Ron Weasley. He's an Auror and, and he—"

"You'll be fine," the man intoned, trying to get his arm back around Harry. Ron was torn between rage at the scene and a sick feeling that Harry had asked for him. "You need to relax. You, ah, what are you doing?"

Harry had dropped the washcloth and was weakly digging in his pocket, stumbling even as he stood still. "Mirror," he said clumsily, as though his mouth was full of marbles. "Two-way mirror. This, this was too fast. Something, something's wrong."

Barker gave a sympathetic chuckle, though a flash of true concern filtered over his expression. "No need for that. Just the flu, you'll see. Remarkable how quickly it sets in."

But Harry had frozen. Hand still in his pocket, he glanced at the sink. His wand was nowhere to be seen. With this realisation his voice became tense, more deliberate. "You aren't, aren't letting me call anyone."

"I'm afraid not." The other man smiled good-naturedly. "Why don't you take that washcloth and take a good whiff? It will go easier, that way."

Harry, though still looking awful, took a surveying glance around without moving his gaze from the man. His words became stronger, from what Ron guessed was pure adrenaline. "How many wands are on me?"

"Not as many as are on your wife," was the simple reply. "Now then, unhand the mirror."

"For being poisoned," Hermione said softly, her hand clutching Ron's in a death-grip, "Harry figured it out quickly. Do you think it's true, about Ginny?"

Ron shook his head, feeling horrid in gazing at the past scene. "He's bluffing. If they had a chance to grab Ginny they would've wanted us too. Or you, at least." He faltered. "But, yeah, that was fast."

"Revenge?" Harry was saying quietly, drawing their attention back to him. A storm raged through his still-weak words, his hand bracing the wall behind him to keep upright. "Ransom?"

"Not that simple," the man chided. "Now, the mirror. As well as any weapons or ways to contact others. If you don't comply, your wife will be the one who—"

Harry made a sudden leap at him, cutting him off. Drawing a knife from his pocket instead of the mirror, the Head Auror twisted unsteadily around. The knife was pressed against the stranger's throat.

"You're bluffing." Harry growled, keeping his arms clasped to trap the man. His breathing was laboured. "Hard enough for you to sneak in. I'm giving you one chance: what's your plan _—hmph!_ "

It was Harry's turn to be cut off, as the washcloth flew up from the floor and wrapped itself around his mouth. He struggled for a minute, but soon his chokehold around the man loosened. The knife fell to the ground. Hermione and Ron watched in horror as their friend's eyes fluttered shut and he slumped over. His arms gave a last shake, as though the muscles were settling. With the Head Auror unconscious the washcloth undraped itself from his mouth. It was only then that the woman holding it unwrapped an invisibility cloak from her body.

'Barker' twisted around to glare at 'Lovett', his false sympathy fleeing into rage. "Why were you waiting? He almost killed me!"

"Don't be overdramatic. Potter could barely hold the knife," she chided, accent now poshly English rather than Scottish. Crouching down and turning Harry's unconscious face to her, she whistled. "Even handsomer in person."

"Harpy," Barker straightened and brushed nonexistent dust off his robes. Ignoring the other two he grabbed the washcloth, put it in his pocket, and pulled out a small, shiny object. He began to enlarge it, taking off a shrinking enchantment.

The woman pinched Harry's features about. "Ooo, wicked. He's a looker for a half-blood! Those brill green eyes alone." She blinked, her brown eyes becoming the exact same shade as Harry's. Barker didn't glance over, enlarging the metallic object. "Not as pretty as the Missus, though."

Barker sent her a harsh look. "Are you fantasising over Potter and his whore wife?"

"Yep!" the woman replied brightly. "Blood traitor or no, I'd shag that. Sure, she's preggers. But those Quidditch pin-ups where she's only covered by golden snitches? My, my. What a gorgeous slut."

Ron's burning temper rose yet another pitch, for the words as well as her squeezing Harry's face. Considering Hermione's revolted look, her piercing anger had also heightened. Barker humphed, back to ignoring his companion. He put the final touches on the enlarged wheelchair.

"I still don't see what's wrong with my plan," the woman pouted. She twisted up her eyes: hair and skin rippled until, seconds later, she looked identical to Harry. A Harry Potter who was giving a lecherous grin that Ron had—thankfully—never seen on his real brother-in-law. "Perfect distraction. You go with grandpa to the hospital and I stroll into dinner. Where I grab 'my wife' and shag her senseless."

"Stop talking." Barker pulled Harry's limp form into the wheelchair. "Will you do your job?"

The metamorphmagus clicked 'her' tongue. But she approached the unconscious man. With a short spell, small lights appeared around Harry's body. The woman expertly went from light to light, removing all the hidden objects:

The other knife sheaved in the sole of Harry's left shoe. The two-way mirror in his pocket. The jagged wire in the lining of his belt. She even rolled up Harry's sleeve and—pinching his lower arm—made a slight incision. Removing the small tracker she closed the wound without leaving a trace. While at it she took his badge, two-way mirror, and grabbed his wand from Barker.

Hermione frowned at Ron throughout this, having not known the extent of Harry's precautions. Ron shrugged, feeling like the current situation justified Harry's (that is, Ginny's) paranoia. He was mainly just enraged someone had detected the items. When the woman spotted that Harry's glasses could be snapped apart into a lock picking device, he reluctantly admitted she was thorough.

"Are you joking?" Hermione whispered at the enfolding scene. "Is that really _…is his tattoo a ward against spells?_ "

"It reveals if a spell's incapacitated him," Ron muttered. "Supposed to trigger alarms if something happens. Been wondering about that."

"So why didn't it!" Hermione cried out, shoving aside the odd paranoia.

"Because this wasn't a spell. They must've figured he'd have some detector on him. Not much of a leap, him being who he is." Ron kicked himself for overlooking this. "Was George's idea, but he couldn't very well charm it to go off whenever Harry fell unconscious. We'd be on red alert every time he took a nap! Whatever they hit him with, it's not magical."

"They're incredibly organised." Hermione bit her lip, watching as the tattooed snitch was removed from Harry's shoulder. "They knew he wouldn't be suspicious about a migraine, how to bi-pass his precautions, and how we were securing this event. Then there's Harry's question, about whether this was for revenge or ransom? We haven't heard any demands yet. If they were going to…to kill him, they would have already done it. Same with polyjuice: they would have shaved his hair. What are they after?"

"Could still be revenge," Ron admitted, not wanting to think that Harry could be undergoing torture. "Or they want information. But he's not about to give them anything. He couldn't! The most sensitive stuff's under Unbreakable Vows. Veritaserum or legilimency couldn't pry it out."

"More minor things wouldn't be protected," Hermione said, surely going over all the grim possibilities. "Say, ways into secure areas. Extensive knowledge about British defences. Global ones, too. Information or blackmail on heaven knows how many people and governments? He's an incredibly influential person, though he doesn't act like it. He could stroll into practically any world leader's office!"

"Let it go, Hermione. We have no idea what they're after." Ron didn't like where the conversation was heading. He uncomfortably remembered laughing with Harry that he'd make a damn good criminal or Dark Lord if he so wished. "You've locked him out and set out an alert, there's little else to do on that front. Look there, will you? The bitch's done."

Lovett was vanishing the objects she'd 'retrieved'. She inclined her head, carefully observing Harry. "Nothing too fancy, eh?"

Barker humphed. "Nothing the detectors could notice."

"All cosmetic charms are picked up." She swirled her wand, lengthening Harry's hair. Soon the longer fringe hid his scar, while a sprouted beard obscured his lower face. Another swish and the dark hair had lightened to a peppery grey. "They're generally ignored with this vain crowd, but something extensive? Your problem."

"Not like we're going through the detector."

"Still say we shouldn't be sneaking out the first floor," Lovett mused. "Why risk getting the floo on how well I can shout at minions as Potter?"

"Would you shut up?"

"Blimey, don't get your wee knickers in a twist." The woman hummed, spinning her wand around with light charms. Harry transformed before the watchers into someone near unrecognisable. Wrinkles were scattered over his skin, pouches appeared under his eyes, and laugh lines crinkled his mouth. The already hidden lightning bolt was blended into the rest of his skin, all of which shifted to a clammier, paler shade. His glasses were already gone, but his eye colour changed to brown and the rest of his clothes were altered to lighter, less notable shades.

The metamorphmagus did another identifying charm, making it so that spots of light appeared over his body. Ignoring any covered by clothes, she closely examined his arms and neck. It was when she was blending the trace marks of a blood quill from Harry's hand that Ron realised the famous lightning bolt wasn't the only scar that was being hidden.

A green light glowed from Alan's watch. Seeing this he tapped it off. "We have company. Aurors, two of them."

"A guard then or an enchantment, outside the door," Hermione said darkly, wholly unshocked. "We should check that after this."

Lovett made a final flourish and grinned at the unconscious man. "You can't rush art, but…"

The bathroom door burst open. Ron watched as Susan Bones and Orla Quirke strode in, taking in the scene. Though their wands were in hand, both relaxed when they saw 'Harry Potter' standing up from the floor, safe and sound.

"Come on, come on," Ron muttered to himself, not believing this was happening. "It's a fake! Ask the impostor a question, anything!"

"They had no reason to," Hermione sadly mumbled back, watching as the Aurors approached the small group.

"Good! Good, you're here." Lovett looked at the Aurors impatiently. Her accent had changed into one closely resembling Harry's London drawl.

"Sir?" Orla glanced at the scene. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am." The imposter's manner was a fair enough imitation of Harry (Ron would only darkly admit this, convinced that he'd have noticed the difference). "But this man has been having breathing problems. He's recovered now, though I want him to be checked over. Can you two show him and his carer to the direct emergency floo to St. Mungo's?"

"Breathing problems? He shouldn't be asleep." Susan's expression turned to one of concern. She stepped towards the disguised Harry, but Lovett held her off.

"Hence the emergency floo," Lovett said grimly. "No offence, but I'd prefer he be seen by a Healer at the hospital."

"But I—"

Lovett arched a brow. "Mr. Turpin needs medical assistance. I'll call ahead and give direct authorisation for him and Mr. Barker." She fished in her pocket for Harry's badge, flashing it. "No need for paranoia, everything's fine. So long as he gets checked over."

Susan hesitated but nodded, gesturing for Barker to follow her. "Orla, stay here with Harry. We'll go to Diggle."

"No Orla, it's alright." Lovett remarked, making the Junior Auror flush at the use of her first name. "Go with these three. They might need assistance and I'm fine. Just need to get back for that blasted speech."

Though Susan took another glance back the four did exit, Barker talking to her pleasantly even though they were hurrying. The moment the door closed Lovett took out Harry's communication mirror, examining it.

"Hmm, funny thing," Lovett mused to herself, lifting it to her ear. "Never held an MLE one before. If it works like a regular one…connect me to Diggle." A small pause before her tone became more serious. "Diggle! I'm authorising emergency floo usage for Barker and Turpin, due to a medical emergency. They're to be sent to St. Mungo's immediately. Don't waste time moving them through security or checking their wands. Bones will second my authorisation for the floo when she drops them off, though she should stay here. Yes. Yes, thank you."

She clicked it off, humming as she stowed the mirror back in her pocket. With this done she curtsied with a pearly smile. Straightening, she looked around the empty room.

"Don't think we didn't do our homework," Lovett called out, seemingly talking to nobody. "Shoddy security you have here. Granger and Weasley, I assume? I was nervous about using a Sweeney Todd alias right to your faces, but couldn't resist. I do love putting on a show! Pardon my companion's rudeness, he doesn't share that trait and has little patience with the Ministry. To all the Aurors who will watch and rewatch this scene? Be happy I have restraint. Because, sweet Jesus, am I tempted to have my way with the Missus before gutting her and her kiddies! Wouldn't that be fun?"

Hermione had paled throughout the scene. Ron wove a shaking arm around her, trying his best to keep them both upright.

Lovett did a tempus charm. "But business before pleasure. It's just past 8:30 now, with Potter due to speak at the hour. In thirty minutes you'll realise your Head Auror's missing. Shame. You know why?" She smacked her lips. "Because Potter will be dead in twenty. It's for a fantastic cause, though, and I hear he's all about the greater good."

The woman sent a last spell around, cleaning up remaining evidence. She gave a cheery wave. "Can't stay, sorry. See you at the funeral! If you ask nicely maybe I'll bring his body as a gift." She morphed into an elderly woman. With a smirk over her shoulder she skipped out of the room.

Hermione stumbled back, hands flying to her mouth. Ron, on automatic, pulled her into a tight embrace. His heart beat like mad as he felt wetness on his cheeks. He wasn't sure who was crying. Most of his thoughts had fallen into a repeated mantra: it's not too late. It's not too late. It's not too late.

"VANCE!" Ron barked, only vaguely aware he was shouting in Hermione's ear. "TEST EVERYONE FOR METAMORPHMAGUSES! YEAH, YOU HEARD ME! FIGURE OUT A DAMN TEST!"

"He's…he's…" Hermione stumbled, hands still pressed against her mouth.

"Harry's fine." Ron tightened his hug, leaning his head against hers. "He'll be fine, you'll see. He's always okay."

 _It's not too late. It's not too late. It's not too late._

 _Please, dear Merlin, let it not be too late._

* * *

"'I'm going to keep going until I succeed — or die. Don't think I don't know how this might end. I've known it for years.'"  
—Harry Potter, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

 **A/N:** As I'm staying the hell away from _Cursed Child_ spoilers, the new canon won't be incorporated into this story (at least not on purpose). As for the fic...yeah. I'm sorry about that, I really am. Unfortunately, this main plot point won't be resolved for quite some time.

The next few chapters will be about what happens to _Harry Potter_ without Harry Potter. I'm talking manic Ministry, worrying Weasleys, poisonous press, and panicking public. Sounds like a grand ole time! No, but seriously. There's going to be a lot of talk of grief, denial, and struggling on in the face of the unthinkable. The comedy has come to an abrupt halt. Harsh mystery and world-weary characters, enter stage right.


	15. A Thestral's Flight

**A/N:** Since the first chapter, people have been commenting with vague panic about who the 'possible major character death' would refer to, and what I meant by saying this fic might be EWE. Triggbc, the second reviewer, was even worried I'd kill off Harry or Ginny! Which, very good guess, by the by.

To be clear: this isn't me saying that a major death will definitely happen, or that Harry's the doomed one. As the story mainly follows Ron's point of view, you lot will know as much (or as little) as he does. So this fic isn't really a 'Who dun it'. It's more of a, 'WTF's going on?' and 'Is he alive?'

* * *

"'Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?' Harry interrupted again.

'So he can sneak up on people,' said Ron. 'Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking…'"

— _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_

* * *

There was coffee. There was so much coffee. By the time it was early morning rather than late night, Ron was ready to snog whichever brilliant soul had spiked the latest round with Firewhisky. Hermione would have surely been less grateful if she'd noticed the addition, but she was currently preoccupied with banging her head against the table (fluttering papers about as she did so). In Hermione's defence, a good number of those around the conference table were tempted to do the exact same (or were in the process of such). Some had succumbed to worse…

Because, by 10 pm, the Aurors and hit-wizards had been racing about every which way, torn in securing the Ministry, interviewing the panicky guests, and jumping into the investigation. It took little time to trace Benjamin Barker as well as a wizard who'd been watching the outside of the bathroom. Both had been caterers for the event, the second having given his name as Jonas Fogg (another false name). The company barely knew them, they kept to themselves, but there were accompanying addresses. Nellie Lovett remained a ghost.

At 11, Kingsley Shacklebolt broke out of the body-bind Lisa had put him under (after his third attempt to escape his protective detail). It took a horde of Aurors to bundle the furious Minister back up, and even then most came out of it with a severe limp or bloody nose. Perhaps more important than a Minister under partial house arrest, MLE personnel had been sent out on raids to the suspects' addresses.

It was at midnight that things calmed down a touch. 'A touch' meaning that the addresses weren't so much houses or flats as they were PO boxes…boxes filled with mail. These had even more possible addresses and Sweeney Todd pseudonyms, none of which the MLE were hopeful about (yet they had to pursue). Reporters had also encircled the Ministry where the lock-down continued.

By 1 am, Hermione had gone over the Pensieve footage enough times that she was wobbly whenever she returned to the real world. She began insisting that Lovett was definitely a woman. According to her, she hadn't 'walked right' when she'd been imitating Harry—she swished her hips and took smaller steps than a man typically would. If the metamorphmagus hadn't been born female she identified as one. Ron was a twinge incredulous, until Hermione dragged him by the collar into the Pensieve enough times that he'd admitted defeat. But this didn't help much. Britain was a society steeply entrenched in pureblood politics and keeping inherent family magic a secret. As such, there was no registration for metamorphmaguses and no way to track them (female or no). There were some open with their gift, such as Nymphadora Tonks, but they were few and far between. Much to the MLE's displeasure, there was also no spell to detect or track this magic.

At 2 in the morning, the senior MLE staff had situated themselves in a conference room—mainly to keep others' safe from their irritated hexes. This sometimes backfired, seeing as how Dmitri's and Lisa's argument about whether Lovett was still in the Ministry had led to angry curses being flung at a furiously transforming vampire bat. The hit-wizards were miffed that the continuing raids was obviously a planned wild goose chase. Tempers were so high that scorchmarks on the door denoted McLaggen's one and only entrance (as the cheerfully rested man's flippant attitude hadn't been met well by his groggy coworkers). Susan (out-of-sorts with being handed leadership and from dealing with the reporters) had been the one to aim a particularly ferocious hex at his head.

Which brought them up to 3 am, where they were more tired and cranky than violent. Clouds of memos buzzed around the room, a frantic WWN announcer was blaring from the corner, and piles of paper and suspect files had been endlessly passed around between the main Aurors and hit-wizards.

Ron glanced around, taking in the disheveled scene with its momentary silence (as everyone gulped down enough caffeine to jolt them awake). He looked at the papers piled up before him. He rubbed his eyes. "Okay," he voiced a thought he'd been thinking for ages. "Anyone else pissed that they're clearly, obviously playing us?"

There was a chorus of grumbled agreements and head desks.

"Or how much goddamn planning went into this," Hit-Wizard Murphy Stone bit out. Every inch of his muscular physique looked ready to punch someone (out of sheer frustration, if nothing else). "Thirty. At least thirty deliberate dead-end leads, half with ties to that blasted musical! And you know they filtered into the crowd only so we had to interrogate every guest. Not even Fudge was this much of a disaster!"

"Because there weren't any clues with Fudge. No leads, like the rest of the vanishings," Ron scrubbed at his face, forcing back a yawn that scratched its way out. "This was a complete change of MO."

Dmitri gave a humourless laugh from across the table, teeth a touch too sharp (Lisa gave them a wary look). "It's the Sweenies' coming-out party."

"Come off it," Hit-Wizard Nicole Gladstone dismissed, words muffled with her head on the table. "They were already the most high-profile criminals London's seen this century."

"Yes, _London_ ," Dmitri argued. "They just went international! Didn't you see the newspapers the States are printing? This is front page. When Europe and Asia wake up, it'll be the same!"

Su Li's gaze had been on the window, frowning as she watched the start of dawn over the city's skyline. "Or what if the changed MO is something different. Yes, of course it's them laughing at us and putting on a show. But the Sweenies made a direct allusion between Harry and Judge Turpin. Turpin's the main target in the story and the villain from Sweeney Todd's point of view. Much of these dead-end leads involve neo-Death Eaters. What if Harry's always been their target?"

Stone stared at her. "Then why the hell would they first kidnap dozens of others!"

"Because that's what they do," Hermione reluctantly pulled her head up. "Death Eaters don't care about collateral damage. What they do care about is inciting terror. If Su's on the right path, then it's not that they only wanted to get Harry. Harry was their coup de grace."

"Perfect their technique by taking people we'd overlook," Ron groaned, "start a panic by scaling up their attacks, and then make it clear no one's safe. The press' already thinking there's a new Dark Lord lurking about—they'll be properly hysteric now."

"I know no one wants to think this," Susan said grimly, "but could we have a Dark Lord on our hands? It'd be a brilliant move, capturing Harry Potter before coming out into the open."

The MLE personnel exchanged uneasy glances.

"It's a group," Ron said with more confidence than he felt. "What we know about them, there's no sign of a clear leader. Doesn't mean they don't have a leader of some sort. But they…look. People like Voldemort and Grindelwald had inflated egos to match their power. We would have heard something."

"Dark Lords typically foster cults of personality," Hermione took off from Ron. "A dictatorship, of sorts. Only 'sneaking around' isn't what they do, as the entire point is to gain followers. They broadcast their names, shout it from the rooftops. The Sweenies more closely resemble a faction of terrorists. Or a group of serial killers, whose main goal is to secretly murder."

"Serial killers, eh?" Stone barked. "So we're admitting the Sweenies are surely killing their victims?"

"No, we're not!" Ron said just as harshly back, sleep nagging at his brain. "Hermione was using an example, that's it! We have no bodies and no evidence that anyone's dead. _No_ ," he continued quickly, cutting off Stone as he opened his mouth, "I'm not counting what Lovett said. She even admitted they were putting on a show, of course she'd tell us they were killing Harry! We have no idea what's happening to the victims. So don't anyone hint to the press that we have a Dark Lord or serial killing group!"

The passionate statement was met with silence. Ron could tell that plenty were less than certain. But they were all at least in agreement about one item: the last thing they needed was mass hysteria, and they were already close enough to that without any official hint that there was a new Voldemort.

"Ron's right, there's no need for speculation," Susan pacified the room. "Maybe we should return to the footage: not of the direct criminals but the areas around them. We might have missed something."

"Or take another look at St. Mungo's," Lisa pointed out. "All we got was Barker and Harry entering before immediately flooing out. Smart, since we can't track that. But maybe they're playing another game? Saying that Harry should be in hospital? Not quite a Sweeney reference, but similar."

Ron eyed Lisa, catching onto a phrase. "What was that?"

"Like, word play. Them talking about hospital and his death—"

"Right. Right, thanks." Ron nodded, tuning out the ensuing conversation. He began looking through the pile of papers before him, taking up a particular page. Scrutinising the transcript he soon found what he was after:

 _L: 'I still don't see what's wrong with my plan. Perfect distraction. You go with grandpa to the hospital and I stroll into dinner. Where I grab "my wife" and shag her senseless.'_

 _B: 'Stop talking. Will you do your job?'_

And then, there. Further down:

 _L: 'Hence the emergency floo. No offence, but I'd prefer he be seen by a Healer at the hospital.'_

Ron kept searching through the transcript, looking with a fresh eye for more evidence of his sudden idea. He saw it soon enough:

 _L: 'Blimey, don't get your wee knickers in a twist.'_

"Hermione," Ron interrupted Dmitri's rant that they should be looking for CCTVs around the PO boxes, drawing the room's attention, "about Lovett. You're sure she's a woman?"

Hermione was startled at the non-sequitur. "Quite. She wasn't a bad impersonator but wasn't moving like a man."

"No, she's a horrible impersonator," Ron put the transcript down, flashing a brief grin. "Was having too much fun to take it seriously. On top of that, she doesn't have a great handle on Britishisms."

A pause.

"On what now?" Lisa leaned forward, as did many of the others.

Ron's expression turned into a smirk. "Lovett made stupid language mistakes. Only caught it when you said that thing about 'should be in hospital'. That's what the English say and what Lovett _didn't_ say. She added a 'the': 'to _the_ hospital'. Then, when she did use Britishisms? She overused them. I'd get if she was cursing too much—hell, I do that—but she was exaggerating even minor words. She put on an over-the-top Scottish accent in the dining hall and an over-the-top English one in the bathroom!"

Another pause. Followed by everyone pouncing for the transcripts.

"If it helps," Ron continued as the others scoured the pages, "I'd guess English's her first language 'cause there's no blaring problems on that end. Though I'd call in a linguist, I bet our mysterious metamorph woman is an—"

" _American!_ " Hermione crowed, looking more awake than she had in an hour. Ron gave her an exasperated glance.

"Thank you, love, for stealing my punchline."

"No no, I'm sorry, you are absolutely brilliant!" Hermione looked at him with shining eyes. "I just noticed something else. She said the floos were on the first floor."

"They're on the ground floor," Stone's forehead creased. "She made a mistake?"

"Yes, but not what you're thinking of." Hermione was growing more excited by the moment. "Lovett knew exactly where the floos were, she was just calling the ground floor the first floor. She's American! Their 'first floor' is our 'ground floor'!"

A slow smile had unraveled on Susan's face. "Plus, though we don't register metamorphs, you know who surely does?"

Ron leaned back in his seat, giving a small laugh. "Never thought I'd say this, but thank Merlin for America's paranoia. Think they'll give us a list?"

"With conditions or for a price? Sure." Hermione didn't seem put off. Indeed, she was looking bloodthirsty. Her husband gave a silent sigh of relief.

* * *

Susan raced off for the American Embassy, Hermione was given consolatory but hedging responses from the CIA, and when Shacklebolt questioned the NSA it took many hems and haws for them to even admit such a registration list existed. By 5 am the entire leadership was even more weary, as Susan had been banned from the Embassy and Shacklebolt had almost initiated an international incident (by losing his temper and declaring that they'd leave NATO if the Yanks weren't more helpful). Ron was on their side, he was, but it only furthered his belief that bureaucracy made people batty.

After these incidents, Hermione had attempted to persuade the European Union to levy some power on the States. Brussels' leaders then riled her up enough that the sleep deprived witch had shouted that she would bloody well get the UK to leave the EU, what with all the good the blasted 'European Project' did them!

…Ron had dragged his protesting wife out of that highly insulted board room, making a mental note to bring this up whenever she mentioned his bad temper. Still, a break was obviously in order. It was thankful that this corresponded with a faint lull back at the Ministry. As soon as Hermione calmed down (with the help of maybe one or two snuck potions) she agreed that someone needed to make a trip to the Burrow. Ron would have joined her, but he was exhausted and knew if he didn't grab a nap he was bound to collapse. Hermione was more furious than tired, so it made sense for her to be the one who visited the family and checked on Rose. So Hermione flooed off and Ron kicked two snogging Junior Aurors off a couch in the break room.

He groggily woke up an hour later, stretching and banging against Hermione's leg. With a tired squint, he realised his head was now in her lap. She was looking down at him, apologetic and red eyed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to wake you," Hermione said in a fretful whisper, as though there was any hope he'd go back to sleep. She'd changed out of her dress and now wore jeans and a cotton top. "I just got back and you looked so peaceful and I—"

"It's fine, don't worry." Ron winced, straightening up. He remained close to his wife, moving so that he was leaning against her. A part of him noted there was no one in the break room except them. "Any more news? How're things at my parents'?"

"No news," she sighed. "The Burrow's packed with people. The kids were asleep but all the adults were crammed in the kitchen, WWN blaring. About pounced me for information when I came in! That's one good thing, I suppose: not much has leaked out." She blearily scrubbed at her hair. "Molly was lovely, forced them off and handed me an overflowing plate. I brought dinner—breakfast?—for you, by the way. As well as a change of clothes."

"Rose? Ginny?"

"Rosie was asleep," Hermione smiled at the name, the movement creasing away some of her worry lines, "curled up with Jamie, Freddie, and Roxie. George told me they'd fallen asleep after arguing about which House they wanted to be in at Hogwarts. Our lovely daughter," she sent him a look, "wishes to sneak into Hufflepuff. This is so that no one will expect when she, ahem, 'takes over the world'."

"That's my girl," Ron said proudly, not knowing how much he'd needed this conversation. He stifled back a yawn. "The other three?"

"Roxie agreed with Rose. The boys are of the same mind, but felt that Gryffindor was the better choice for their goals. Apparently, they cited us and the Twins as 'precedence'." Any humour fell at this mention of Fred and Harry. "Ron, Ginny didn't say much. She was one of the few who didn't start shouting questions when I walked in."

Ron was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry I didn't go with you. What did you end up telling them?"

Hermione squeezed his hand, massaging his fingers. "I kept it vague. Told them that there'd been raids and the lock-down had been mainly lifted." She chewed her lip. "I said most of our suspects looked like dead-ends but that the investigation was only just beginning. I, I didn't tell them what Lovett claimed."

He nodded, understanding. "It was surely nonsense anyway. She was bluffing, only wanted to scare us."

"I, I guess." A quick breath. "Yes, of course you're right."

* * *

It was back to reviewing useless witness testimonies, tightening security, conducting even more 'raids' of PO boxes, and 'negotiating' with the American Ambassador (Susan had gotten her ban revoked, though the Ambassador's arms were still tentacles). It was properly the morning of 1st November before there was another lieu. Some Aurors were preparing for Shacklebolt's planned press conference, but one Senior Auror had something else in mind.

Ron felt like a walk and apparation over the floo, he felt like avoiding his family for as long as possible, and he didn't fancy popping to the Burrow (without announcement) into what was surely a lion's den. He thought this was a good plan. He thought it was rather brilliant, actually. Unfortunately, he was tired enough to forget about the reporters. He remembered them the moment he stepped into the overflowing Atrium:

" _Weasley, Weasley!_ Any statement from your family?"

" _Witch Weekly_ here! Tell your side of why you were shoved aside for Bones!"

"Witnesses reported you assaulted Reginald Ripley! Is he your main suspect?"

"—the Sweenies?"

"Has Potter been killed like the rest!"

"—knowing the Sweenies slipped through your fingers?"

"—Dark Lord surfacing—"

"—tragic widow, have her children been told?"

Ron barged through the screaming press. Pushing through head down, he tried to tune out the shouts. A thought flurried to the front of his mind: he wished he had Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

He blocked the view of two colliding cameras, struggling to get through the gridlocked Atrium. People slipping and sliding on the candy rocketing out from the fountain helped, but it was slow going. Oddly, he found himself distracted from this chaotic scene. Had Harry had his Cloak with him? Ron wasn't sure, the bloke had a habit of carrying it on him. Maybe Ginny knew. No, wait, Lovett hadn't found it. What about his wand? Broken, no doubt. What else would he have had on him? His badge, a wallet with pictures of his kids, some knives.

Ron felt a trickle of relief, even as he fought through the shouted questions, batting reporters, and flaring cameras for the exit. Aside from the wand, Harry hadn't lost anything that precious to him. So once they found him maybe there wouldn't be irreparable damage. He was queasy thinking about it in these terms, but he also didn't want to imagine Harry's face if his dad's Cloak had been lost.

Wait, no…his wedding ring. He'd forgotten Harry's ring.

"Weasley, WEASLEY! ONE QUESTION!"

* * *

 _"—Temporary Head Auror Bones has made no further comment since her announcement of an 'incident' at the gala. There have been scores of witnesses coming forth, but the Ministry will be making an official statement any minute now. If you're just tuning in this morning, last night Harry Potter was—"_

Ron stood by the kitchen door, hand on the knob. The hallway was deserted though he could hear children's shrieks from the living room. He could make out Rose's voice, too, and it took everything he had not to rush to her. But WWN was resounding from the otherwise silent kitchen and he knew he had to get the interrogation over with.

Taking a deep breath he opened the door and stepped into the crowded room. He began speaking before any of the startled people had realised he'd entered. "You aren't pouncing me like you did Hermione. This night's been hell, I'm dead exhausted, and all I want to do right now is hug my daughter. If all of you stay quiet I'll tell you what's happened."

No one made a peep. George and Angelina peered at him from over a huge parchment they were scrawling on, his mum had Andromeda's hands in her own, his dad seemed to have been talking in a low voice to Bill in the corner, and the other Weasley adults—except Ginny—were huddled around the kitchen table and a WWN radio. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had just begun to speak:

 _"I am saddened to have to address the nation today. Rumours of recent events have already spread far and wide, and I unfortunately have to confirm them. Last night, Head Auror Harry Potter was kidnapped from a Ministry Gala. The Magical Law Enforcement has evidence that the 'Sweenies' were behind it."_

Ron sunk into a chair, rubbing his face and not looking at his relatives. "Harry vanished and the kidnappers used fake names from _Sweeney Todd_. That combined with other details makes us sure this was the Sweenies, not copycats. But the group's signature changed. Instead of leaving no leads, they gave us an abundance of false clues. I've lost count of how many useless raids were conducted, and don't start me on the gaps in security. But there's, there's possibly a real lead on one of the criminals. I dunno. It's a disaster, honestly."

There was a long, tense pause. Another thought came to mind and Ron pried his eyes open to peer at his family.

"This isn't another Dark Lord," he continued more harshly than he'd meant to. "I don't know what the media's been saying, but we have no evidence of that. There's also no proof this is a serial killing group! If I have to hear that one more bloody time—"

"You think he's alright?" Andromeda cut in, stricken. His mum tightened the hold on her hand.

 _"Our papers have been filled for the past months with this group's crimes. From the disappearance of Charlotte Fawcett to Cornelius Fudge, our community has been horrifically shaken. There are few of us who have not been impacted. Still, there is no pretending that this latest disappearance doesn't change things. Head Auror Potter is a beloved hero for us all, a good man who encompassed a revolution. Harry's also a close friend of mine, and though we've had our disagreements I wish nothing more than for his safe return home. My heart goes out to Ginny Potter and their children, as well as the Weasley and Tonks families. I ask the public and media to please grant them privacy during this trying time."_

Ron's throat suddenly felt dry. Did he think Harry was alright? An image of Lovett pronouncing Harry's death played in his mind…of the potion that had made Lottie convulse…of how easy it was to vanish a corpse…of criminals gleefully baking meat pies… "Yeah, of course he's fine. These are kidnappers, not murderers."

Angelina gave a jerking movement, staring at Ron with wide eyes. George gave his brother a considering look. The rest of the family was relieved.

 _"Still, as much as it hurts, Mr. Potter is only one of thirty-three who have been taken. As I have said before, we do not believe that this is the work of a new Dark Lord. A psychopathic group is responsible. While we are taking it extremely seriously that the defeater of Voldemort was captured during a memorial for the First War, we are judging these to be closer to acts of terrorism than orders from a rising megalomaniac. I urge the British public to apply rationality to the gossip which has been endlessly spewed. I also call on the press to manage the yellow journalism that has been besmirching your pages. This situation is bad enough without irresponsible reporters writing up nonsense rumours and spreading hysteria."_

"Look, just listen to Shacklebolt. He isn't that full of it, no matter how annoyed Harry is at him," Ron gestured at the radio, getting back to his feet. He could have been at the announcement himself, though he'd had absolutely no desire to go. He'd wanted to stay well away from pitying and questioning stares. "I know Rose's in the living room, but where's Ginny?"

"She's in there as well," Audrey said in a small voice. But the statement was overshadowed by his mum jolting up from her seat and rushing towards him, apparently startled from his rise from the table.

"Oh Ronnie," she wrapped him in a tight embrace. He returned it gladly: he couldn't remember the last time one of his mum's hugs had felt this good. The exhaustion almost sank back as warmth filled him. Eventually, she was who ended it, reaching up to place her hands on his cheeks. "Have you eaten, or had any sleep?"

She'd been crying, it was obvious this close. She also needed more sleep. This was what made Ron realise that, really, he shouldn't be nearly this tired. He'd done all-nighters plenty of times before and they'd never left him feeling anywhere this worn out.

 _"The MLE has been working non-stop for months to bring these criminals to justice and to find our missing friends and family. The temporary loss of our Head Auror is keenly felt, but Interim Head Susan Bones has all of my confidence, as does Director of Magical Law Enforcement Hermione Weasley."_

Ron pulled back from his mum's hold, gaze apologetic. "I'm not hungry, thanks mum." His dad was stepping forward along with George and his lengthy parchment. Though the hug had been wonderful, he was feeling even worse every moment spent here. "I'm fine, everything's going to be fine. Just—I'll go see Rose. Thanks for looking after her, I just…I don't really have much time. I'm sorry."

Ron wouldn't say that he fled from the kitchen. It was a fast pace, that was it. As the door slammed behind him he leaned against the hallway wall, head tilted back with closed eyes. He needed to catch his breath. Merlin, he needed to sleep. Why was his chest this knotted?

"Hey," came a voice by him. Ron gave a pitched breath followed by a low sigh: he hadn't realised anyone had followed him, and if that didn't say how out of it he was, nothing would.

" _What_ , George?" So maybe he was testy. He didn't look at his brother. "I'm fine, okay? Bugger off."

There was a scoff. "Sure, you're fine. That's why you're hyperventilating out here."

"I'm _not_ hyperventi—what the hell do you want?"

There was a pause, a long enough one that Ron opened his eyes, looking over at his hesitating brother.

George pulled in an aggrieved sigh, gesturing at the parchment he held. "We've all been going spare here. Angie especially." 'Because of Lottie Fawcett,' was the unspoken message. "To stop people from pouncing you lot at the Ministry, I figured a distraction was in order."

Ron groaned, knowing full well where this was headed. "What did you explode?"

"Not that type of distraction," George gave a wry grin. This fell as he glanced at the paper, fidgeting. "Listen Ron, all jokes aside. You know I absolutely respect you and your job?"

"Uh, sure?"

"And that I honestly wouldn't interfere in an MLE case—'cept, you know, if the Ministry was taken over by wankers?"

"George, I'm going to find Rose in five seconds. One—two—"

The parchment was thrust into his hands.

"We came up with alternatives," George said bluntly, no amusement in his voice. "Take it seriously, toss it in the bin: up to you."

Blinking, Ron peered down at the long list. His eyebrows raised at some of the bullet points. "'Grave rob Dumbledore and snatch the Elder Wand'? 'Brew a tonne of felix felicis and roll with it'? 'Bribe the Hogwarts ghosts to make a canvas search of Britain'?"

George scratched his head. "We got a bit tipsy around the middle there."

"I can tell," Ron looked at Audrey's looping handwriting which detailed a theoretical fishing pole that could be thrust through the Veil of Death (or, according to her, more of a possible, 'Veil-to-another-time-or-dimension-and-maybe-not-so-much-a-portal-to-hell'). "So, these are…"

"Ideas on how to find Harry. Yeah, I know." George waved off Ron's look. "Again, not trying to interfere with you lot. But we were talking, see, and figured that a ridiculous number of his adventures end with some deus ex machina thing."

Ron raised an eyebrow, feeling the smallest prickle of amusement. "His 'adventures' and…deus ex machina?"

"Come on, the bloke's the so-called Master of Death! Screwy things are always happening to him," George glossed over. "Maybe Ginny's right and he'll come waltzing back any minute now. But if not, these are some off-the-wall ways to rescue Boy Wonder."

"Uh huh," Ron rolled up the parchment before minimising it, sticking it in his pocket. "Thanks George. No, seriously, thank you. I'll look it over and show it to Hermione."

George let out a low exhale, clasping his shoulder. "I know you're just pacifying me, but thanks mate."

* * *

Children were racing every which way through the living room, hyped up as they could only be after a family-wide sleepover at the Burrow. There were shouts of greeting as Ron walked in, enthusiastic enough that he instantly learned two things: the kids hadn't been told anything, and they were surely all full of Halloween sugar.

Ginny looked…not better, not at all, but she had on a fake smile. She was clutching Al to her chest and, out of all the kids, only Jamie seemed confused (taking glances at his mum while he played with Rose, Fred, and Roxanne). To be fair, Teddy and Victoire were also out of sorts. But when they looked up from their talking at Ron's entrance, their expressions were more fearful than confused. Then Rose was running at him and everything else faded.

"Dada!" his little girl squeaked as Ron wrapped her in his arms, lifting her up. "So so so much fun! Love slum'er parties!"

"That's great sweetie," Ron swallowed. As Rose chattered on about all she'd been up to that morning, his gaze shifted to Ginny. She hadn't gotten up and hadn't glanced at him. He walked over to her, balancing Rose as he did.

She gave him a glance as he came up: her smile twitched. She was still in her dress from last night, though her feet were bare—her heels had been kicked off somewhere.

"Not much yet," Ron answered the unspoken question, sitting beside her on the couch. He took it as a good sign that she didn't shove him off the cushion. Al yawned, slurping at his hand. Jamie, Teddy, and Vicky were sending him odd looks. "Lots of raids, tonnes of dead ends. Maybe one good lead, Hermione's working on it."

"Okay," was the short reply. Ron tried not to gape. He also scrambled for something else to say.

"Do you want something?" was his stab at a sentence. Ginny blinked at him, confused.

"What?"

"Something, like water? A book? A, err, bottle for Al? Chocolate?" Ron mentally shook himself—he thought he was better at this comforting stuff. But it apparently worked because, after a moment, a true smile (albeit faint) appeared on her face.

"Ron, never change. You're hopeless," Ginny said fondly. If it was any other situation she would have giggled. "Oh go on then, hug me. You look like you need it more than me."

But before Ron could answer or move, Rose perked up. At the mention of a hug she squealed, jumping forward to wrap her baby cousin in a hug with dozens of kisses.

The adults blinked at their kids. "Well," Ginny said drily, watching her son's dazedness as he was 'attacked', "that wasn't quite what I— _umph_."

Because Ron had promptly bundled her into a hug as well. Ginny rolled her eyes but patted his back. "Sweet Circe Ron, you're as bad as your daughter."

"Shut up," he muttered. "I'm comforting you."

"Your hugs are as tight as mum's, I swear—"

"You aren't supposed to talk through this!"

"You aren't supposed to strangle me!"

"This is hardly strangling, don't be stupid. If anything, I'm squashing our kids."

"Oh yes Ron, that's mounds better. Not to mention you're squishing my unborn child."

"She's being cushioned by Al and Rose, s'all good. And they're giggling, see? Nothing to worry about."

There was a lengthy pause. Neither noticed the looks they were getting for the extended hug, or that Rosie had grown bored and had pulled herself and her drooling cousin out of the sandwich onto the neighbouring couch cushion.

" _I'm sorry, sis,_ " Ron murmured, his voice low enough that only Ginny heard. "We'll find him. He'll be fine, you'll see."

"I know," was Ginny's soft reply. And if she was a bit too calm about all of this, Ron was just glad she wasn't crying. He was about as good at dealing with sobbing women as he was with comforting hugs.

* * *

It was still a mess. Everyone was racing around, shouting orders, apparating to check on useless lead after useless lead. Ron was at the centre of it until…there was a moment of quiet.

Not for everyone, just him. A minute where Ron found himself in an unwanted break, waiting for a stack of papers from the Ministry's caterers to get to him and where he…where he could only stand there. Wait. Think. Overthink. Obsess.

Ron drummed his fingers against his arm, impatient at the records' slowness and frustrated at the thoughts bubbling up now that he had time to dwell on them. Because he knew all too well it was his fault Harry had been at the gala, he didn't need constant reminders.

But his thoughts didn't care, being too busy giving him more and more reasons why he was to blame. _He'd_ convinced Harry to go to the nonsense memorial. _He'd_ tricked Harry into giving a speech. _He_ hadn't noticed the blue residue. _He'd_ waved off Harry's headache. _He_ hadn't considered Lovett's obviously fake name. _He'd_ thought nothing of his best friend disappearing for a bit.

… _he_ was the one who'd been acting like a jerk. Who bothered their best friend about taking a promotion? What sort of prat pranked someone instead of admitting he missed working with them? Who did all of that without feeling a shred of guilt?

A tablespoon of tact? Hah! Hermione had overestimated.

A sick feeling rumbled in Ron's stomach, the impact of an earlier action truly hitting him. "Christ," he grimaced at the floor and clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. "I brought his parents into this. His parents! What was I thinking? How the hell could I… _damn it!_ " His hand slammed the edge of a table, taking no notice of the pain.

Some best friend he was.

But even these thoughts were preferable to those lingering in the back of his mind. The distant memories that jolted Ron with déja vu:

* * *

 _Feeling relieved when Harry told him about his horrid relatives when they'd first met. Because at least he wouldn't make fun of Ron's hand-me-downs. At least someone else had a mad family._

 _Feeling the 'Potter Stinks' badge hit his skin and ding off. Looking at Harry's angry face, seeing his frightened best mate, and turning his back to stomp off up to their dorm._

 _Feeling rage and hunger and horror and helplessness build up within him until: "Your parents are dead! You have no family!"_

 _Feeling reluctant and uncertain, but pulling Harry away from the Burrow dinner to the empty living room. The Auror seminars on how to handle child victims had gotten to him. On how to recognise abuse. Quiet and underfed kids, flinching at touches, with little self-esteem and rare smiles. Kids who distrusted authority. Kids who were wary but crafty. Harry seemed happy now, albeit confused. Ron took a deep breath and wiped that away: "What the hell did your uncle do to you?"_

 _Feeling peeved while Harry's grin faded to uncertainty. The man had been expecting a good-natured laugh or a full-hearted congratulations. What he got was hurt silence before:"Head Auror? Are you mad!" harsh words flooded up before Ron could reign them in. "What's wrong with your job now! Hah, what am I saying. Too good for Harry Bloody Potter, yeah?"_

* * *

Ron rested his head against the wall, barely noticing when the records were plopped before him. His hand throbbed, he didn't care. He wasn't sure if he wanted to scream, sob, or sleep for a year. Maybe all of them. Probably all of them.

He wondered why Harry had stuck with him for so long. Had he ever apologised? Properly apologised, that is. For any of it. Because he always regretted the blunt questions and insults after he said them, but it never stopped the next one from slipping out. Sure, he did it to everyone: short temper and all that. But it was different with Harry. He'd always been the one bloke who never needed (or expected) an apology. So Ron could say whatever he wanted to him with no repercussions.

No repercussions.

A deep breath. Another one.

No, Ron realised. More than collapsing or shouting (maybe even more than apologising until he was blue in the face) he wanted to hold Rosie and Hermione and never let them go.

The noise of the Auror offices darted back into his brain, unpleasantly shaking him from his thoughts. Straightening and cursing, he grabbed the files and strode off to whatever the hell he was going to try next. Because, emotionally clueless or no, Ron was finding his best friend before the idiot got himself killed.

* * *

It was lunch (past lunch) and Ron had no appetite. The UK wasn't going to war with the US and their seats in NATO and the EU remained in place. But that was about all that was good. The States was still barely budging on their records, they had no other decent leads, and the media firestorm was only growing more intense. Lisa thrust a sandwich in his hand.

It was the afternoon, it was November, and Ron teamed up with Susan to force Hermione out of the Ministry for some sleep.

It was dinner (past dinner), and Susan teamed up with Dmitri to force Ron back home. Well, to the Burrow. He stayed just long enough to avoid the flung questions and find out that Hermione had picked up Rose earlier.

Then, he was home. It felt weird walking through the doorway. He went upstairs to check on Rose, who was sleeping, and saw that the master bedroom was empty. Hurrying back down he was amazed that he'd missed the bright light shining from their living room. He was even more amazed when he entered and saw his wife.

The thing was, Ron had hoped Hermione was sleeping. But he'd expected to find her buried behind a wall of books. She was seated beside stacks of scrolls and tomes, true. But that was just the general state of their cluttered living room. But now, aside from a pile of crumpled up parchments which should be binned, there were none of the usual signs that she'd gone off on a frantic research mode.

That alone made Ron worry. Because that meant maybe she wasn't in a 'frantic research mode', and he wasn't sure how else she would handle a crisis. But, apparently, it was like this. His wife was sitting on the couch, staring at the flickering fireplace: no book in her hand.

He took this as a sign that she'd finally lost it.

"Why am I shocked?" Hermione murmured, revealing that she did know Ron was in the room. He shoved his current worry over her mental state aside and cautiously walked in. Seeing that she wasn't about to erupt in shouts, he sat down on a lumpy cushion and took her hand in his.

"We all are," Ron said extra gently, because even with everything else the thought of a crying Hermione terrified him. He'd far prefer her frantically reading. Or frantically screaming (at him or otherwise). Because then he'd know to either be quiet or to argue back until both were calm. But even after years of marriage, he still hadn't the faintest how he was supposed to combat tears.

"It doesn't make sense!" she gave a sniffle, making him stiffen beside her. There were only a few loose sobs, shock being the most blazen expression across her face. "We should have expected this to happen. At least at some point! It's a miracle none of us were taken during the war—oh, you know what I mean. Then with our jobs…"

It dawned on him what she was talking about. His voice became even softer, trying to soothe her using logic. He figured this was a decent idea. "You know Harry hates security details. Who knows how many guards he's shaken off over the years?"

"That's not the point!" Hermione exclaimed. Ron was somewhat encouraged by the anger rather than defeat in her tone, but was less mollified by the tears now streaming down her cheeks. "We've laughed about it, laughed! Did we really think nothing could happen? That we could all coast by into peaceful lives? We never took the background threats seriously. _Of course someone would kidnap him!_ I'm only shocked it didn't happen earlier!"

Ron opened his mouth to protest, before closing it. As happened so many times when talking to his wife, he couldn't think of a way to refute her. Because she was right. Per usual.

The Aurors and hit-wizards provided security details for most high ranking magical figures. For almost all of them, actually, at least on occasion. Now that Ron thought about it, he could only think of one wizard who routinely turned down any guards for himself—saying that he found them annoying and cumbersome. Usually security was pushed, at least for big events. But even the Minister of Magic was unlikely to argue with Harry Potter, not when the man had dug his heels in.

So now they were (he was) blaming Harry's stubbornness for his disappearance. Blaming the missing wizard. Just when Ron thought he couldn't feel any worse.

"For ransom alone…" Hermione's shuddering voice broke, shaking him out of his guilty thoughts. "I don't even want to think about if this is for revenge. Because, what these people must have planned? Or have done already?"

Ron slumped against the back of the couch, the exhaustion catching up with him. "We're morons, aren't we."

"Complete idiots," Hermione agreed, her voice still not sounding like her own. "But not as bad as that stupid, naive prat who thinks he's, he's immortal or some nonsense! Because _good god Ron_ , when I see Harry I'm going to kill him for frightening us like this! That or, or body-binding him and stuffing him in an unplottable room in an unplottable house until he agrees to a security detail! Because I'm, I'm that worried and, and…"

"Breathe, love. It's okay," Ron murmured, pulling his hiccoughing wife to his chest. "We'll find him, you'll see. Everything will be fine."

* * *

"Death doesn't discriminate  
Between the sinners and the saints  
It takes and it takes and it takes.  
History obliterates,  
In every picture it paints  
It paints me and all my mistakes."  
—Aaron Burr, _Hamilton_

* * *

 **A/N:** Should be clear, but this isn't going to be one of those bash!Ron fics. Yeah, I have him regretting saying a bunch of stuff to Harry. But you know when something bad happens and you replay every single thing you could have done differently? That's what Ron's doing, taking things out of context in the process. Also, my headcanon's that Ron had an epiphany about the Dursleys while learning about child abuse as an Auror. It's not much of a leap that a shocked Ron would bluntly confront Harry…which couldn't have ended well.

Next, the whole 'exaggerating Britishisms' thing is a tongue-in-cheek joke, as I'm sure I accidentally do it in my writing. It's also because I couldn't resist having an American baddie. After reading so many fics about American Mary Sues entering Hogwarts, it was bound time my home country had some fun playing a villain.

Finally, pardon the EU/NATO joke! It won't be part of the story, I just couldn't resist poking fun at Brexit.


	16. An Augerey's Chime

**A/N:** Holy Potter, I saw the _Cursed Child_ play! I started crying in Act One and was gaping through the rest. Don't listen to the naysayers: this play captures the magic and wonder of the original books, taking a realistic look at the fairy tale. This 8th story is almost better than all of the previous 7 (nope, not joking)! For more of me squeeing about this subject, check out my main profile.

Reason I'm mentioning this here (aside from me being utterly obsessed)? I'm rewriting bits and pieces of this story to eventually insert some _Cursed Child_ plot points. I'LL WARN FOR ANY SPOILERS, DON'T WORRY! Keen readers might spot a few hints coming up here and there, but it's really nothing that could spoil the story.

* * *

It was the second of November and Ron could feel dozens of eyes on him. For once, it wasn't from the reporters still swarming the Ministry.

This newest unpleasantness had started when he'd walked into the Auror office early that morning. He was groggy, worried, pissed off, and all too aware he'd only left the office six hours previously. He wouldn't have bothered leaving at all, if not to drag Ginny to the Burrow, check on the kids, arrange 'emergency babysitting', and help his mother drug his sister with a sleeping draught. His mum had then turned traitor and dosed him too. Thankfully, it was a small portion. So after an unplanned cat nap he'd flooed straight back to the Ministry.

Abercrombie was outright staring at him. He held a file and had been talking to a Junior Auror Ron couldn't recall the name of. He knew her, vaguely. Some recruit who'd been writing suggestive comments in her meeting notes. If he wasn't her partial supervisor, he'd have been amused. If he was more awake he'd know her name.

The girl couldn't see the entering redhead and was growing cross as Abercrombie gaped around her. "Euan? Hello? What's so interesting that…" she spun around. Her angry retort dwindled into an awkward stare.

"Why," Ron looked at the stunned two as his last bit of patience crinkled and snapped, "are you gawking at me. Are you bored? Do you have nothing to do today? Is everything so quiet around here you have time to gossip?"

"No I, I um…" Abercrombie stumbled. Though he glanced beseechingly at his companion, she was equally lost.

"Because it's funny, Abercrombie," Ron recalled the woman's name in a flash, "Quirke. I could've sworn a massive security breech was important! But is it boring to you? Not worth your bloody time?"

"No! No no, not at all—"

"Really." Ron knew he was going to regret taking out his anger on them. But he found that, at the moment, he couldn't give a damn. "So you mean that, while the rest of the department's scrambling to find the missing Head Auror, you think it's productive to gawk at me?"

"I, I mean—" it was Quirke's turn to stumble.

"Piss off." Ron stormed past them into the offices. Being exhausted and supremely irritated, he was frankly proud of himself for not having fricasseed the pair of them.

Because of all this, it took him a minute to remember he'd felt more than just Abercrombie's stare on him. It took even longer to talk himself down from laying into the entire eavesdropping and gossip-hungry office.

* * *

It was still the second of November and everything seemed quiet. Not 'quiet' quiet. A, 'something-was-going-on-he-didn't-know-about' quiet. McLaggen had been cheerfully chirping about 'American babes' and some of the other Senior Aurors wouldn't meet his eye when they passed in the hallway. Lisa had told him in a low voice that she hadn't agreed and had supported him against the partial house arrest. Dmitri had (rather bluntly) asked if he'd like him to give Susan a little _peck_. What had put him firmly on edge, however, was overhearing a group of Junior Aurors whispering about how to join, 'Weasley's growing coup'.

"I'm not planning a coup d'état," Ron said instead of knocking, leaning against Susan's door with crossed arms. As she turned in her chair he glanced around her unchanged room. "Not moving into the Head's office?"

Susan frowned up at him. "Of course _you_ aren't planning a coup. But don't try baiting me! I'm only the temporary Head, I already had copies of the case files, and I like my office."

"Okay." He considered her. They'd been friends for ages, but the whispers had been odd. He was saved from answering when she continued.

"Who told you?" A wipe of her brow and a flick back of her hair. She looked stressed. "Hermione, I imagine. I'm sorry. The meeting was early this morning and you weren't here. It wasn't meant to be behind your back."

Ron opened his mouth before closing it, feeling more than ever like he was missing a key point. "I haven't seen Hermione. Lisa and Dmitri were who hinted at something."

Susan's eyes widened before deflating. "Not sure if that makes it better or not. I'm sure she assumed I would tell you—was right peeved when she heard—"

"What's going on?"

A more serious expression crossed her face. "Heard back from the States, they agreed to send over a list of metamorphs. But they made it clear they'll stop being helpful the moment we try to make an arrest on their soil."

Ron's heart soared, forgetting his previous unease. "They're arguing jurisdiction?"

"Partially. If the suspect's on their watch list, they call dibs."

"We can work with that!" He grinned, and did that feel wonderful. "I don't care I missed the meeting, that's fantastic! Who's heading to the States with me?" Her look hardened. "Yeah yeah, I'm jumping the wand. But we'll have a list of suspects. It's only a matter of time before we narrow it down and go after Lovett!"

"I agree," there was a hint of apology. "But when that happens, you aren't going to be the one who travels to the US."

Ron's heart sunk back down. "Excuse me?"

"You're too close to this case," Susan said. "Under any other circumstances I'd be asking you to step down from the Sweeney spree altogether! But I understand. It'd be hard to find someone in this department not personally involved—even setting aside Hermione's impossible position. But you aren't going to the States."

"Oh sure, grand idea," Ron said sarcastically, Lisa's earlier comment making sense. "Put me on house arrest, the bloke who knows all about this spree. Who's going instead?" There was a tense pause. It clicked and his mouth fell open. "No. No, you can't be serious."

"He's one of the few qualified Aurors who isn't personally close to Harry. He's also spent time in California and worked the Sweeney cases with you—"

" _McLaggen?_ With all due respect, are you insane? He's an incompetent prick who doesn't do his job!"

"Versus the wizard who has scared off six partners, flaunts breaking Ministry rules, ran a passive aggressive campaign to have Harry demoted, basically blackmailed said Head Auror, was partially responsible for the rumour of people being baked into pies, and who has turned up no substantial leads in the Sweeney spree? Not to mention the gossip that this behaviour has been glossed over because of your wife and brother-in-law?"

A blanket of silence followed Susan's terse summary. After a minute she sighed.

"I'm being harsh and unfair, but you must see my point," she near pleaded with him. "This department's a mess and the last thing we need is more controversy. Right now, you're a time-bomb. It's only a matter of when the reporters will switch from canvassing the Ministry to stalking your family, and you're one of the most likely to explode! In this case, distance is good. Step back for a while."

Another tension thickened the air.

Susan softened further. "This isn't a punishment. You'll still be working the cases: both Harry's and the Sweeney spree. But you need to be out of sight right now, away from the limelight." She gave a forced smile. "I'm jealous, really. These press conferences are fraying my nerves. Not that everything else isn't, but…listen. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Ron stared at her for a final, long moment. "Fine. Fine, I get it. I've been an immature prat and went too far, so now I'm paying the price. But let me go with McLaggen, it's not like reporters will be there. He can take the lead, I don't care."

"Ron, I—"

"Sue! This is Harry we're talking about. I have to go!"

"It's not like we'll actually find Harry there! This is a hypothetical trip and a hypothetical suspect, that's it. For all we know nothing will come of the US lead."

"Sue…"

"We'll talk about this later, okay? I'm swamped with work."

* * *

This morning was a blurry awakening. He wasn't sure, at first, why he'd woken so early. Or why the dawn's light over his squinting eyes was harsh. Or why his head felt heavy.

Then he reached over, felt the empty pillow, and everything came rushing back. Hermione was at the Ministry. Rose was at his mum's (she'd insisted, seeing his bedraggled state). The Potters might still be trapped at the Burrow…no, not 'the' Potters. Ginny and her kids. Harry was—

"Bloody hell," Ron sat up with a groan, bending his head over and scrubbing his hair. He was in his clothes from the night (morning?) before. It was disorienting not knowing for sure how long it had been since the gala. He blamed his tiredness. It was, what, the third of November? Maybe the fourth. Certainly not the fifth, someone would have mentioned something about fireworks.

He discarded that thought as quickly as it came, because of course no one would be on about Guy Fawkes Day with everything else. Still, maybe it was the fifth? Then Ginny would be back at her home by now. He was sure, though, that Rose was with his parents. With Hermione and he stuck at the Ministry, they'd been wonderful and had insisted she stay with them.

Ron rummaged his thoughts, trying to think of absolutely anything but the nundo in the room. If it was the fifth, they were supposed to go to the Grangers for the bonfire. Damn, had they cancelled? Maybe Hermione had. Did Jean and William know what had happened? Not if Hermione hadn't called them yet. They ought to tell them. If things continued like this it'd be a godsend to drop off Rose at another set of grandparents…and wow did that make him feel like a rubbish parent. But Rose loved her Nana and Papa, and his in-laws adored spoiling their only grandchild.

It'd make for an awkward conversation, though. The Grangers knew Harry and liked him, but they weren't close. Worse yet, his in-laws were already wary about the magical world. Ron knew Hermione had been glossing over the Sweenies and Rippers with them, what with her pregnancy. So to hear about this?

"No, nope!" Ron muttered, finally used to the morning's light. "Not thinking about that. Five minutes of peace, is that too much to ask?"

Another face scrub: he would kill for a shower. Or more sleep. Or something to eat. Or an off-switch for his thoughts. It was little consolation that he could take care of two of those.

By the time Ron had gotten downstairs (showered, fresh clothes, and yawning wide enough to crack his jaw) he'd decided that the need for a hot breakfast outweighed his tiredness. The _Daily Prophet_ on the window sill was dutifully ignored as he started making scrambled eggs.

He needed to be back at the Ministry soon, that much was clear. Hermione had said she didn't want to see him in the MLE until at least noon, but that was nonsense. Sooner he got back, the sooner she could justify taking a break herself to see Rose and get some much needed sleep. After breakfast he'd go to straight back—that is, first to the Burrow, wrap his daughter in a hug, and apologise to his parents for the chaos.

"Not like they'll take an apology," Ron scoffed to himself, sliding the cooked eggs onto a plate. "Mum'll be crying and baking up a storm, and dad surely has tonnes of the grandkids over to distract her. Rosie's surely having a ball, learning about rubber ducks or whatnot."

Trying to convince himself of such, fork and full plate was deposited on the table. After a moment's hesitation he went over and opened the window, grabbing the newspaper with distaste. Even without seeing the headline, he knew full well what they'd be reporting. As much as he hated it, he ought to see if they were conveying facts or fear-mongering.

But…why should he? He was in a bad enough mood, no need to sour it further. If there was anything crucial he'd hear about it at the Ministry. Nodding to himself, he tucked into his breakfast with far less gusto than usual.

* * *

"The States sent over thirty-five names," Hermione got straight to the point, sliding the packet across the table to Ron. They were in her office, a tower of papers on her desk and a pillow on the couch in the corner he didn't mention. They were good at this, this, 'let's-mix-personal-and-business-until-we-tumble-over-in-confusion' thing. It worked better when she wasn't ignoring that she was pregnant or he wasn't ignoring her hints to let off about her taking a break. It also worked mounds better when they weren't stressed: at times like this, either personal or business was shoved out the window. As Harry was missing, there was never any doubt which would go. "Twenty women. Of those, fifteen would be physically able to get around. The others are too young or old."

He took the file, turning away from the pillow and swallowing a question about her sleep. "Anyone suspicious?"

"One name popped out: Serena Rowle, a former potions professor at Cascadia Academy. Recognise her last name? Her parents were from the UK and only immigrated in 1981."

"Plenty of people were leaving then," Ron pointed out, shifting through the pages. "Everyone thought it was the peak of the war."

" _November_ 1981." Hermione nodded when Ron's head jerked up. She looked more awake than she had a minute ago. "The moment Voldemort was gone this branch of the Rowles packed up and left. They're an old pureblood, dark-aligned family. If they weren't Death Eaters, they at least sympathised with the cause. Truly nasty history of muggle-baiting." Her look turned stormier, glaring at the folder. "This family is the reason why muggles think witches and wizards turn people into frogs. They made a game of it from the Medieval Ages on, doing transformations on playing children and keeping them as _pets_. Some even think they originated eating frog legs! It makes me absolutely sick. It was well-known back then that they did this, but nobody cared!"

Setting aside this highly unpleasant history, he found the page he'd been looking for and changed the topic. "Rowle was fired from her post a year ago? I don't see any addresses after that one in Seattle. She went underground, then. Has she used her passport?"

Hermione had calmed down, though she still seemed ready to throttle any passing Rowles. "No activity on her passport, but there are plenty of alternative routes in and out of a country."

"Anything more than circumstantial evidence or, err, family history against her?"

"She's virtually an unknown. Hasn't rung any alarms in the US, apart from allegations about her illegally selling potions—which led to her firing. We'll need to send someone over." Hermione hesitated. "I overruled Susan. You'll be heading to the States with McLaggen."

Ron sent her a startled look. Because, sure, they sometimes mixed business and personal stuff. But that was usually just a snog in the office. This? "Hermione…"

"It'd be a mistake not to send the two people most well-versed in this spree out. An American representative will meet you and—"

"Hermione! Hold on a mo." Ron waved a hand, taking this in. "You can't go and pull strings for me. Yeah, I don't like Susan's decision. But she has a point. I've been irresponsible lately and…" a swallow, "and I'm really close to this case."

"McLaggen's a clown," Hermione pressed. "Having him romping around the US unsupervised is begging for an international incident."

"Are you feeling alright? In what sort of universe would I be a good supervisor?"

"You're a wonderful Auror when you're serious about it! There's no one I trust more to find Harry."

"Not helping your case against nepotism, dear."

"For heaven's sake, you can't think it's a good idea to only send McLaggen?"

"Course not. But Susan's right, it shouldn't be me. Talk to her and come up with a second name."

Hermione gave him a long stare, her expression growing more drawn. "You must know this isn't your fault."

"Not to be rude, but I have mounds of casework." Ron got up, ignoring her beseeching look. "See you at home. At work. Whatever."

As he strode out the door his mind wasn't on the conversation, but on her standing in protest as he left. She was really showing. They still didn't know the gender, the nursery wasn't set up, they hadn't seriously discussed names…and he was increasingly feeling like he was ignoring his daughter.

"Damn it," Ron mumbled a curse, glancing back at Hermione's now closed door. He wavered before continuing on to his own office. Now wasn't the time for a confrontation, she was only more stubborn when stressed and tired. But he could do something about Rose.

* * *

Fireworks lit the London skyline, muffled cheers resounded through the streets, and Ron had bundled up his daughter in blankets and warming charms before coming out to the roof. She was clapping and giggling at the sight, waggling her hands at the bursts of colour. He hadn't thought he'd be happy that Susan had restricted him from going to the States. But right now, while McLaggen and Dmitri were on the other side of the Atlantic (surely recovering from the international portkey), he was feeling calmer than he had all week.

Not entirely calm. Hermione was stuck at the Ministry, Harry was missing, and Ginny was insane. But he had his daughter back in his arms. He was clutching Rose tighter than he usually did, hoping she didn't notice. "Rose?"

"Yeah?" she twisted around to blink at him, woven hair bouncing.

"I'm sorry I've been gone lately. But you do know I really, really want to spend time with you? That I always want to be with you?"

Rose gave a giggling snort, turning back to the fireworks. She looked near identical to Hermione when she was scoffing about a silly thing he'd said. He took heart in this, though it made him miss both of them.

"Well, that's good." Ron snuggled her to his chest, facing the night sky. "Wouldn't want my Rosie Posie being lonely."

"No' a Posie," Rose mumbled, thumb in mouth.

"You're right. You're _my_ Posie!" he chuckled at her protest. "You are having fun at the Burrow, right?"

"Yeah." Attention was back on the corkscrew fireworks.

"Err, have you heard anything odd?"

"Freddy an' Roxie turned forks an' tings to goop," Rose said absently, following the lights in the dark. "Gran wasn' mad at all! All us 'ere laughin', 'cept Jamie an' Teddy."

"Oh? What did they do?"

It was a moment before she answered. "Dey been weird. Saw dem talkin' yeste-tester-"

"Yesterday?"

"Yeah! Well, Teddy said somet'ing 'bout Unca George's funny ears—"

Ron swallowed. "Extendable Ears?"

"Ye'h. Told Jamie bunch o' stuff, didn' hear. But Jamie was really quiet after. Really weird."

"Uh huh," he let out a low exhale, composing an urgent Patronus message in his head. "Did he talk to his mum after that?"

"Nah. Bu' Auntie Ginny also been quiet."

"I'm sure she has been." Ron took some relief from this. Teddy and Jamie likely knew what had happened, but if they hadn't confronted Ginny yet he had time to avert an explosion. There'd been talk amongst the adults about what to tell the kids and when to do it—he needed to sound the alarm and push up the time scale. It was one thing for parents to explain a serious topic to children. It was another for young kids to spread rumours back and forth, working themselves into a frenzy.

'Sweet Merlin,' he gave a silent groan. 'Even at home I have to avert hysteria.'

Ron's gaze flickered to a lull in the fireworks. "You're right, that sounds odd. Do you mind if I tell your mum about this and ask Ginny?"

"'s fine," she mumbled, stare having returned to the shining colours. "Where mummy?"

"I told you, sweetie. Remember?" Ron adjusted the woollen blanket around his daughter. "She's at the Ministry. There was a grumpy man who didn't want to help us with something. But your mum's brilliant and turned him around."

"'ow?"

'By terrifying him at the thought of Harry being controlled,' he smirked at his wife's ruthless genius. 'One mention of Dark Lord Potter…'

Ron shook himself out of these (admittedly macabre) thoughts. "She made him see reason. The bloke sent over the information she wanted, so now she's acting on it. She misses you tonnes and really wanted to be here. Tonnes and tonnes and tonnes!" He emphasised each with a kiss to her braided hair.

Rose giggled, squirming. "Yeah. 'kay."

He was going to say more, until he saw Rose wasn't paying him much mind. He couldn't hope to compete with fireworks ringing across the moon and stars, brightening the city below. It looked beautiful. He'd forgotten that, almost. London had been so ghastly lately. Before Halloween, he'd even given a thought or two about talking to Hermione about moving.

Maybe being an Auror wasn't for him. He hated he could only see the nasty stuff these days. When had they last been to South Bank? Or Leicester Square? When Rose was a baby Hermione had loved strolling her around the British Museum, pointing out the statues and artefacts…and suppressing a laugh as Ron kept up a running commentary on the 'alternative' (and rather lewd) histories. When had they last been there? Ages, surely. Or the zoo? He remembered taking Rose there. But it must have been years ago, because it was soon after she and Jamie had been born: Harry had been snorting at Ron's joking attempt at parseltongue and they'd both had prams. He'd only stopped hissing when Ginny and Hermione had come into the Reptile House with ice creams and his sister had paled at the sound.

Maybe there was a reason they hadn't been to London Zoo in eons. But there were other places, loads of them. When was the last time they'd just looked out at the city? Wandered about, gotten lost? Found a nice park and set up camp for the afternoon as the kids played?

Earlier, Ron had been miffed to step back from the crime spree. He wasn't sure what he thought now. Hugging Rose close, his wondered how to tell his family they needed to discuss the news with their children. Pushed to the side was what he'd actually tell Rose. He hoped Hermione had some idea.

"'member, 'member!"

"What, Posie?"

Rose turned to him, making a face at the name. But the grin was quick to return. "Fi'th of No'ember!"

"Oh. Right." The 'Gunpowder treason and plot', lest it ever be forgot. It was a barmy excuse for a holiday, he thought. Making Guy Fawkes a folk hero for trying to blow up Parliament? Yeah, 'Remember Remember'. 

* * *

"Only deliver this when they're alone," Ron whispered to his Patronus before raising his voice (not too much: Rose had collapsed in the next room, a smile on her face and a kiss on her forehead). "Ginny, Andromeda? I'm pretty sure Teddy knows about Harry and that he's told Jamie. Don't know if they've confronted you yet, but you need to explain things to them. I'd wake them up if I were you. Doubt they're getting much sleep." 

* * *

An owl from Dean and Seamus. They were worried, they offered any help they could, they asked about Hermione, Rose, Ginny, and the pregnancies. There wasn't a single crude joke. Either Dean had written the letter, or even Seamus was acting sober. Neville had written the day before with almost the same words. Except he'd mentioned that he and Hannah had tried (and failed) to floo—no one had been home. He was completely understanding about it, merely asked if there was anything he could do.

When had Ron last seen any of them? He'd almost forgotten about poker nights, or the excuses he'd been making to get out of them. He'd gotten wrapped up in the Sweenies long before Halloween. They'd had a dinner party with the Longbottoms, he thought. But that'd been…what, late summer? Same with the Scamanders. With a sense of dread, he hit his fireplace with a spell to list missed floos:

Neville and Hannah multiple times, yes. But Luna and Rolf too. Luna quite a lot. Padma had a number of tries as well, as did Lavender (Ron blinked at this). Lee. Dean. Seamus (at odd hours of the morning—Ron guessed the Irishman had been more than a bit tipsy). All of his siblings (by blood and marriage). His parents. No friends from work (why would they? They'd all been living at the Ministry lately). Assorted other friends, other acquaintances, some parents of Rose's friends…no reporters or random fans/enemies, though, as their floo was highly private. He was a tinge surprised so many could access it. He thought they'd revealed the address to fewer people.

Ron should answer him back. He knew that. He would, once he knew what to say. No…he would as soon as he could stand seeing their sympathetic glances and hearing empty platitudes. He got enough of that at work already, thanks.

He sunk onto the living room couch, dropping his wand on the side-table and his head on the cushion. The sandwich the letter had distracted him from was only remembered ten minutes later. 

* * *

It was the 6th of November and Ron was feeling guilty. He took a minute at lunch to floo to Hogsmeade, coming back and dropping Honeydukes' Best Chocolates on Euan Abercrombie's and Orla Quirke's desks. Neither of them were in, something he was glad about.

This contentment crashed and burned when the office grapevine (Creevey, Ron was sure. It was always Creevey) let Abercrombie and Quirke know who was behind the treats. That it was an apology was obvious, that it was readily accepted was even more so. Because Ron suddenly found himself with two chatting, beaming shadows. He only kept from shouting at them by the reminder of what had gotten him into this mess, as well as the fact that most of the other Aurors seemed to be avoiding him these days.

Also, Quirke turned out to be hilarious. Rather obsessed with match-making the office (marriages be damned, apparently), but her sketch of terrifying pies devouring a caricatured Sweeney Todd made him laugh for the first time all week.

He'd missed her grin at his reaction as she shared a self-satisfied look with Abercrombie. 

* * *

"Sweetie?"

Rose looked up from her doll, giving her dad a big grin. Ron tried to smile back.

"Rosie," he said, tasting the words. He was already regretting this. He wished he was, at least, having this talk with Hermione by his side. But she'd been crying so much… "I have some bad news."

The little girl blinked up at him, head tilted. She looked so much like her inquisitive mother. Ron swallowed, picking her up (as well as her doll) and putting her in his lap. "You know how mummy and I have been busy lately? Well, we've been trying to find bad guys. One of them…you see…"

'This was a horrible idea,' he berated himself, looking at Rose's innocent face.

"You see," he started again, fumbling to make sense, "the bad guys, they've been taking people away. A lot of people—but you shouldn't be scared! That's not what I mean, because of course you're safe and sound. I don't mean to worry you or anything and you'll be just fine, I'll make sure of it!"

"Daddy?"

Ron hesitated. He was suddenly glad Hermione wasn't hearing the mess he was making of this. "You know how we tell you not to wander off with strangers? It's sort of like that."

"Daddddddyyy," Rosie groaned, attention back on her doll, "wanna play! Won' take 'andy from people, an' if dey grab me I scream, take wand, kick 'em an' run. Run run run. An' keep screaming. I know, daddy!"

A low chuckle escaped him. He knew he was overprotective, but he was still proud. "That's right, you should do exactly that. But listen, look at me a minute. The people who've been taken? One of them," whatever bare humour he'd felt had fallen away, "one of them is your Uncle Harry."

While Rose's gaze had turned back to him she was frowning, tongue stuck between her teeth.

"He's probably fine!" Ron said quickly, not taking the time to think if he'd regret saying this. "Mummy and I and, and everyone is looking for him. But your godfather might not be around for awhile. Your mum and Aunt Ginny are really sad, okay? So if you see them…err, upset, that's why." He let out a slow breath, glad he was almost done with this. "If you want to talk, I'm always here. Okay Rosie? About anything, of course, but especially with this."

He drifted off, remembering exactly how young his daughter was. Which he knew, obviously. But Rose was so much like Hermione, so smart and able to grasp concepts far beyond her age. Still, this was surely pushing it. Maybe he should have said something else?

Rose's frown had lightened, doll long forgotten. "Unca 'arry gone?"

"Yes, I'm so sorry." Ron hated this entire conversation. "Your cousins are also being told about this. I, I know Harry's always over, but your godmum's still here! Though we might not want to bother Ginny for a few days—"

"Unca 'arry?" Rose repeated before grinning. Ron watched her worriedly, not at all sure what to do. "Yay yay YAY! Unca 'arry'll have new stories! Think 'e'll see 'nother dragon? Jamie keeps sayin' he wants 'nother dragon story, but Unca 'arry says he has enough an'—SO COOL!" she clapped her hands, unaware of her dad's shock. "When'll he be back? OOO, OR SNORKACKS! Auntie Luna says they hiding, but Unca 'arry'll find 'em! That where he gone?"

"Oh. Um." Ron inwardly cursed, knowing he should have had this conversation with Hermione present. "Rose, Rose? I know you're excited but—sweetie, your Uncle Harry isn't on an adventure. It's more dangerous. He didn't want to leave, he was taken by the bad guys. Stolen."

"But he be back." Rose nodded firmly, all of this clear-cut to her.

"I, I really hope so, but it…" Ron looked up at the ceiling, taking in a slow inhale. "Yeah. Yeah, of course he will be."

Hermione would kill him when she heard about this. 

* * *

There was still the, 'they're-hiding-things-from-me' feeling at work. Ron was sure he could bother Hermione for any details he was missing, but couldn't bring himself to. Also, he was pretty sure he wasn't actually missing anything.

Lisa mumbled a constant stream of news over lunch, telling him the raids were still resulting in dead-ends and the hit-wizards were about to drop the whole operation. Dmitri sent him hurried Patronuses from the States, saying that he knew of Susan's black-out over him but didn't care, that they were at Cascadia ("On top of an actual mountain, can you believe? If Rainier wasn't so cold, I'd be thrilled!"), that Rowle's reputation made Snape look like a saint, and that she was fired because of her remarks against muggleborns as well as her illegal selling of potions. McLaggen even sent a Patronus or two, waxing poetic about Rowle's noted transfiguration…prowess ("She's a metamorph known for _transfiguring her ribs into putty_. She's my perfect woman and she's a terrorist! I've always loved me a bad girl. Now all I've got to do is find the naughty bird").

Other Aurors and Junior Aurors (Quirke and Abercrombie in particular) beamed as they showed Ron whatever information they'd 'uncovered'. Normally, he'd be touched. But he only felt uneasy. It was almost like there was a clandestine network that all reported to him, though he hadn't done anything. He probably knew as much about the unfolding case as Susan, even though she'd been tight-lipped around him. She was exhausted these days, returning from every press conference green in the face and racing straight to the loo. Sometimes she forgot the silencing charm. He had a few quiet words with the rest, but the news kept coming.

Soon his irritation boiled over in a spectacular rant in the break room.

"Veritaserum? You're protesting Veritaserum?" Ron tossed up his arms, voice harsh as Lisa blinked at him. The relatively crowded room looked around. "There were multiple, massive security breaches! Of course they're thinking about questioning us! They'd be mad not to. Really, it should've happened sooner. Stop ranting about Bones for her good decisions!"

"But I, I thought…you and her…" Lisa trailed off.

"She isn't dosing the bloody coffee with truth serum!" Ron was sick and tired of this. He glared around the room, addressing all of them. "I'm not mad at Bo—at Susan, alright? If any of you are angry on my behalf, or have some inane idea that I want to be leader, get off your high horse! I messed up and now I'm on a short leash, end of story." He chuckled darkly, turning back to a startled Lisa. "Or have you forgotten that no Auror wanted to partner with me, too afraid of what I'd do to them? Stop the spy network and focus on solving the spree!"

With that, he'd stormed out of the room—leaving his sandwich, a gaping Lisa, and a crowd of considering Aurors. 

* * *

The hints to him about the Sweenies dwindled somewhat after that, though it was clear they couldn't find Rowle in the US and that the lead was drying up. Even without working on the spree, Ron was massively busy. On top of his usual mound of cases to get to, handling the heckling reporters and his whispering family was harder than ever. On the other hand, he hadn't realised how much time he usually spent chatting to his best mate. So—while he had no time—there were free periods where he found himself listless. Needing to do something.

It was during one of these times that Ron recalled a thing. A minor-ish thing that wasn't so minor, a thing he didn't remember anyone mentioning. Taking off for a long lunch, he found the address and a designated Ministry apparation point, then _popped!_ to Scotland. 

* * *

Ron had never been here. Harry had mentioned it in passing, but it was another thing to stand outside the door. He wondered why he had impulsively left rather than sending an owl or a muggle letter. Or why he was doing any of this at all, considering Ginny should probably be the one to contact them. Maybe she already had. He hadn't asked.

But Ginny was acting bonkers and no one else likely knew if they'd been told. So here he was, knocking on a door. As he waited he glanced around, thinking about the last time he'd been in Edinburgh. Cho Chang's and Roger Davies' house was very different from this small flat, which was tall and cozy, stuck between a flower shop and a pub. There were swirly finger paint drawings in one window and a batch of blooming daffodils in the other. A scent of something baking wafted out, though it could as easily be chocolate chip cookies as a roast beef.

Hurried footsteps came from inside but Ron's doubts were pooling, his gaze stuck on the taped pages on the window. Just when he'd decided that all of this was a horrible idea, the door was being swung open by a mildly smiling woman. Baby in hand, the petite brunette looked at him without recognition.

"Hello?" she said pleasantly, adjusting her daughter.

"Hi, Renée?" Ron asked. "You probably don't remember me. Ron Weasley? We met in passing at the Potters? You talked to my wife, Hermione—"

"About the uni system! Of course, at Jamie's birthday. Lovely Shakespearean name, liked her from the start. Then all you Weasleys from Arthurian legend!" Renée's smile was now a genuine one, lighting up her features. She swept back from the door. "Look at me, rattling off about names. Come in, come in! I've been meaning to call her again for ages. How are you?"

"Ah, okay." Ron's half-hearted grin fell at her cheerful words. As he followed her in his hesitation grew. "I don't suppose you've heard from anyone in the wizarding world lately?"

"No, should I have? Lord knows my relatives swear up and down they've never even met a squib," Renée called over her shoulder as they walked to the kitchen. She waved at a chair with her free hand. "Sit, sit! Tea? Then you certainly know how busy the Potters can get. Us as well, to be fair. Our schedules never seem to match up! I'd be busy with classes, Dudley with the pub, Ginny with a deadline, or Harry running after some new madness. Can't even bring myself to go to London these days, knowing all the ruckus behind the scenes. I—" she paused, realising Ron hadn't answered her about the tea. Turning and seeing his downcast expression her easy smile fell away. "Oh no. You look like you're here about something bad. Now that I think about it, that you're here isn't a good sign. No offence, but it's rather odd. It—oh god! Ginny's pregnancy? Her baby? I know she's not due yet!"

"Ginny's fi…" Ron hesitated, "it, it has nothing to do with her baby. Sorry, is your husband here? I need to tell him too." 

* * *

The silver bat cascaded around Ron's head, cawing madly as it flew in excited circles. He'd never seen a Patronus as similar to its creator as Dmitri's. He also found himself missing Pig with a sudden pang.

Only after the bat had finally settled down to perch on his shoulder did it release the message: "Weasley, we have another tie between a victim and suspect! Rowle was fired for brewing illegal potions and selling them on the black market. Guess who one of her international clientele was? That's right, Roger Davies! We're assuming. Rowle left behind a ledger with a friend which showed that a British customer, 'RD', owed her two thousand galleons—you heard me—for a cutting-edge, experimental doping potion. Enough for a Quidditch team. I'd bet someone came to collect the debt." 

* * *

Ron wasn't really supposed to be here. As far as Bones knew, he was working on the robbery up in Manchester. But so what if he waited a few hours to submit the report that the jewel thieves had been found and were cooling their heels in the county gaol? So what if he'd badgered Creevey into also waiting to file his report, before deciding to go on a leisurely stroll by the witness rooms?

While there, it wouldn't be that strange if his attention was caught by a gently crying woman waiting in a seat. Then, obviously, it was only natural to comfort her.

"Hi," Ron started before quickly waving as the witch caught his eye and began to stand. "No no! Keep sitting, it's fine. I'm not here to, err—"

"Interrogate me?" Cho said duly, eyes moving back down to her lap.

"The word I was going for was 'question', but sure. I saw you crying and, well," Ron scratched the nape of his neck, "my Gryffindor senses started tingling. Does that for crying woman. Also for crying men. Or cute puppies, crying or otherwise. Or kneazles, actually. More of a cat person these days."

Gaze slowly moved back up, staring at him in confusion.

"What I mean," he backtracked, "is I'm no longer on your case. But I'm sorry about everything with Davies and, wouldn't you know it, thought I'd come over and see what the problem was. I really don't like crying women, you see." He paused. "Err, things that make women cry."

Cho kept staring. Then she gave a muffled chuckle/hiccough and ran a hand over her puffy eyes. "You're as bad as Harry. Anyone ever told you that?"

"You take that back!" But Ron grinned. "So, sitting. Can I sit?"

She shrugged, sweeping a hand over the neighbour seat as he took it (casting a glance around for any watching or suspicious coworkers). "Normally I'd be opposed for you just being a kneazle person _alone_. But I'm supposed to believe you don't know why I'm here?"

"I'm person non grata around here these days," Ron had to force nonchalance into his voice, discarding the silliness about kneazles. "Something about making the Head Auror life's hell and not noticing until too late that he'd vanished. A big, nasty red mark on my records."

Cho's expression lightened a pinch. Enough that her suspicion slightly appeased. "I'm a suspect."

"Ah."

"Not for Rogie's kidnapping." Her head ducked back down. "They, they had all these papers about the Falcons. That oaf, McLaggen? Was shouting at me for helping dose the Quidditch players. But I didn't! Nothing like that happened! The Falcons are talented, that's it! Rogie would never do that!"

Remembering old conversations with Ginny, Ron doubted as much about the team. But these were real tears, and what had McLaggen been doing? "Aurors, we…in questioning, we come down hard on everybody. Doesn't mean you're a main suspect. They let you sit out here by yourself, hmm? We don't let hardened criminals waltz out the front door. That's a good sign."

Cho's arms were circled around her. "The other one, Turpin, she got angry at McLaggen and sent me out here. But she was serious about this too. She thinks Rogie did something." 

* * *

"Oi, Weasley! Had an interesting interview today. Rowle didn't have many visitors, though an older British uncle and young niece visited at times. The coworker only remembered because the niece was tiny and bouncing everywhere, listening at doorknobs and the like. Thing is, Rowle doesn't have an uncle or a niece. Her parents were only children. Hope the weather's better in Britain: it's snow, snow, snow up here on Mt. Rainier. McLaggen's been complaining non-stop that we should've gone to sunny California!" 

* * *

Another morning. Hermione was also in bed, this time, though she hurtled out of it to throw up in the bathroom. Ron dazedly followed. Holding back her hair he worried about her being sick so near the end of the pregnancy. Morning sickness hadn't bothered her for ages. Maybe it was the stress of the growing baby?

Then Bones had called her, Hermione had hurriedly swept back into the bedroom for clothes, and Ron had another guess for the cause of the stress.

"I'm needed there now!" she'd said when Ron had protested.

"It isn't an emergency," he'd argued right back. "You can have breakfast first! You're running yourself ragged, can't you see?"

"Things are a mess right now! Susan—"

" _To hell with Bones!_ " Ron had shouted back, and he wasn't proud of that, but he was sick of everything and if she wanted an argument they would bloody well have an argument. "You're pregnant! Have you forgotten? Because I honestly think you have, seeing as how you should be on leave! Not running about at all hours."

Hermione's face grew hot and red, her blouse half-buttoned, her tone lethal. "Are you joking? I can't do my job because I'm pregnant?"

His words were gritted. "That's not what I meant. It's the break of dawn, you're sick, we're having a baby in—in weeks!—and you go racing whenever Bones can't do her job?"

"Susan's doing fine!" she was more exasperated than angry, finishing buttoning her shirt. "I get more frantic calls from Kingsley than her, anyway, and besides? If you have a problem with her, you shouldn't have protested me stepping in about the States!"

"That isn't what…" Ron trailed off, seeing that Hermione was picking up her purse and was going to leave one way or another. "A bite of breakfast, that's all. The new crisis can surely wait ten minutes."

"It's fine," she said tightly, walking out to the hallway. "Is it alright if I drop off Rose at my parents? I'll grab food for her as I leave."

Hermione shut the door before Ron could answer. 

* * *

After a long shower, Ron was having breakfast himself. He noted the ingredients for porridge on the counter and hoped Hermione as well as Rose had eaten. She'd left the _Daily Prophet_ rolled up on the table, untouched. She surely hadn't the stomach for it.

He started to eat, gaze drifting to the curled paper. He didn't want to look at it. He didn't want to think about what the headline would surely be. But it was staring at him and staring back was better than glancing at the empty seats. He wondered if the newspaper had a compulsion reading charm on it? Would explain some of the _Prophet_ 's sales. Also (if he was being honest) he was annoyed enough to take a savage joy in doing something that Hermione hadn't the heart to.

With an all-mighty sigh Ron gave into the inevitable, untying the knot around the paper and laying out the headlining article. Then he stared.

And stared.

The front page was occupied by four things: the gold tinged _Daily Prophet_ moniker, today's date, a huge headline, and an even larger, moving photo. The image was of Harry, holding Barker at knifepoint before being knocked unconscious. Then Lovett, gripping his face as she shifted into an identical copy. The imposter smirked down at the limp Head Auror.

"Hell no," Ron murmured, not able to look away as the image repeated itself. "No. No no no no no. This is bad, this is really bad…" he grappled for his two-way mirror, speaking into it as he continued staring at the newspaper. "Hermione. HERMIONE!"

" _Ron?_ " Hermione sounded even more tired. " _Before you say anything, I'm sorry. It was barely dawn and I was half-asleep, but I shouldn't have snapped—_ "

"Today's _Daily Prophet_ , have you seen it!" Lovett was pinching Harry's face, turning it this way and that.

" _Not yet?_ " A short pause. " _Adam's getting it. I'm assuming it's hysteria concerning the Sweenies?_ "

"Hermione," Ron said with barely restrained calm, resisting shouting a stream of curses, "do you know what's on the front page? Because I'm looking at it. It's the exact footage FROM THE PENSIEVE OF LOVETT AND BARKER KIDNAPPING HARRY!"

So the attempt to reign in his anger didn't work. He felt it was more than justified. There was a long silence from the other end. " _Are you honestly telling me that—_ "

"MLE has a mole," he said in a rush, "someone sold the footage to the paper! I don't dare read the article, but I'm sure the whole case has been leaked. I'll be in soon!"

The call was abruptly ended, mirror flung to the table (just missing the eggs as it flew). Ron glared down at the photo and blazing headline. Even with everything else, he was pissed off that the attempts to keep public panic to a minimum had just blown up. With a blaring headline of, 'HARRY POTTER IS DEAD!', he didn't see how this could end in anything but hysteria.

Another thought occurred to Ron and he swore, ricocheting up from the table and hitting his knee in the process. Wincing, he raced from the house. 

* * *

"I'm coming! I'M COMING!" Ginny's irate voice echoed over the bell's sharp chimes. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS? IF YOU'RE A REPORTER, YOU'D BETTER START RUNNING!"

"LIKE A REPORTER COULD GET IN," Ron shouted through the closed front door, impatient and a bit fearful. "HURRY UP ALREADY—oh, hey," he lowered his voice when he noticed he'd continued shouting at the now open door and Ginny's unimpressed face. "About time!"

"Hello to you too," Ginny rolled her eyes as Ron rushed past her, making a beeline for her kitchen. "Humph, pounding on the door like that at the crack of dawn. You're lucky I was already up, and are so lucky you didn't wake my kids."

"Yeah yeah, hi, whatever." Ron had come to a sliding stop in her kitchen, looking at the empty window sill with a frown. "Say Ginny, do you know where—"

"—the _Daily Prophet_ is?" her answer made him jerk around. His sister had followed behind him and was gesturing at the open newspaper on her table. "Why yes, I do. Also yes, I've read it. You were half an hour too late to destroy the paper before I saw it."

Ron stared at her, sympathy and bewilderment battling. Because his first instinct was to sweep his traumatised sister into a fierce hug and assure her that the _Prophet_ was full of it. But Ginny, now that he looked at her properly, seemed fine. Peaky and tired…but she was already dressed, was wearing make-up, and didn't look all that upset. She was smiling at him with a hint of a smirk. "Uh, what?"

"You thought I'd take that rubbish seriously?" Ginny scoffed, hand waving dismissively at the article bellowing her husband's assumed death. "The same paper that's convinced I've been dosing Harry with love potions and that we're on the verge of a divorce? I swear, I have no idea why I'm still working for them. Bloody contract."

She had a point. But it wasn't the reaction to the newspaper he was suddenly concerned about. "Hey, if I can help with anything…or if you need someone to listen…"

"Not you too!" she exclaimed, arms crossing around her belly bump. "The hugs are bad enough. Mum I understand, but even Percy was trying to be 'emotionally considerate'. Percy! Can you imagine? So let me reassure you that I'm perfectly fine. I'm not in shock, I don't need help, and I'm not terrified. I panicked when it first happened, but you know what? After a night's rest I remembered something very important."

"Which is?" Ron asked hesitantly.

"It's Harry!" Ginny huffed, her sigh fond. "He's forever getting into mad situations. The _Prophet_ is only more of the same: the press fear mongering. We all know full well that Harry's fine, just like always. He'll come waltzing back soon enough, most likely with the incapacitated Sweenies in tow. Moronic kidnappers, I swear. Haven't they learned anything from the other criminals stupid enough to go up against him?"

Sure, Ron had been telling himself the exact same things. But to hear it said aloud, said by his completely calm sister? It sounded…'optimistic' wasn't the right word. 'Naive' was closer. 'In denial' and 'in shock' were spot on. He realised why more than a few Aurors had been giving him pitying glances. Not that he didn't believe Harry was okay, because of course he was. But how could she be _smiling?_

* * *

**A/N:** There was originally a different chapter here, as I'd had it outlined that Ron would go investigate the lead in the US. But I realised it'd make much more sense if he didn't go: if he was feeling guilty and agreed with Susan that he should be on partial house arrest. Basically, it dawned on me that I couldn't bend everything for Ron and that actions had consequences. This was a tough realisation to swallow, as I'd already written the damn chapter set in Seattle. Oh, it was wonderful! An American magical school, Pike Place Market and Rainier being enchanted, fangirls mistaking Ron for Prince Harry…bloody well everything. I might rewrite it from McLaggen's pov, but right now I don't have the heart. I'm so close to making OMAKEs of this story, I kid you not. So many fluff scenes that didn't make the cut, and I had these great exploding poker nights with the old Gryffindor dorm mates that couldn't fit in!

Still, huge shout out and thank you to my good friend A, who (before the chapter was tossed) was an incredible help in figuring out the now non-existent plot points. That was mainly why I was so reluctant to get rid of it: her ideas were amazing!


	17. A Flickering Lumos

If everything hadn't already been a disaster before, it certainly was now. All of MLE was a ruckus as the not-so-secret news that someone was selling cases to the press was screamed from the rooftops. Ron would have gladly added to the shouting with, 'Shut it and find the damned mole!', and, 'I leave for _three bloody hours_ '…if a hand hadn't gripped his collar as soon as he'd arrived back from Ginny's, dragging him into an office.

He blinked, shout still on his lips, as the door magically shut behind him. Hermione's door—with the literary quotes thumbtacked amid bits and bobs of photos and memories. If it was Hermione's door, this was Hermione's office. Which meant…

"Screw the mole!" his wife said elegantly as he turned, her grip releasing his collar and a tight look to her face. "Screw this mess!"

"Ah, dear?" Ron backed a step away, rather scared of the glint in her eyes. She walked to her desk, grabbing a long sheet of paper and a separate list. He took a second glance: George's list?

"Susan and Kingsley are on top of that mess," Hermione gestured impatiently at a chair as she checked for any listening or spying spells, "we won't be missed. But this nonsense has gone on for too long! We're not leaving this room until we have a plan to get Harry back, do you hear me?"

Ron was still standing. Gawking at her, a bit, because her features were shining with fierceness and determination and _sweet Merlin_ was he in love with this woman. If he swept her into a kiss he blamed his frayed nerves, or how she shone with hair a mess and fiery eyes.

After a minute Hermione pulled away, a flush in her cheeks and batting him off with a smile. "That won't help us find him!"

"Sorry, sorry." He wasn't. "George's mad list? You realise half of them were drunk while writing that."

"Madness is exactly what we need," was the simple reply.

As they sat down and started to go through it, he couldn't help but agree. He also had the best sort of déja vu, thinking of the old days where the three of them would pace the Gryffindor common room, puzzling out whichever mystery they'd stuck their noses into. Hermione would rush to the library with a squeak, Ron would run after her with a joke to make everything seem okay, and Harry would switch up the plan at the last minute with a bonafide miracle.

Except, this wasn't Hogwarts. This wasn't a faceless mystery, and the two of them knew the proper—the professional—ways to nab the bad guys. But those weren't working at the moment. So the adults bent over the list, tsking and sighing and exclaiming over the outlandish possibilities. Because one thing was clear: this was Harry they were dealing with, and anything related to him played by another set of rules.

"Think they're onto something with the Master of Death stuff?" Ron prodded several bullet-points that went into this. "Harry always said it was a meaningless title. But could there be something there?" He caught Hermione's look and backtracked. "Not that I agree with—uh, that's Audrey's handwriting—that Harry's the Grim Reaper. Or think that—jeez, how drunk was Bill?—Harry can talk with 'Death'. But it's the Deathly Hallows! Something there, eh?"

Hermione twirled a quill, her earlier enthusiasm somewhat muted. "If you're asking if I think it makes any difference that Harry is technically the 'master' of all three objects, no, I don't. Mainly because he didn't have any on him when he disappeared."

Ron scratched his ear. "He might've had his Cloak?" Hermione looked at him. "Which wouldn't really make a difference, right. But what about the other two? We could—"

"If you're suggesting we do a spot of grave robbing and dig up the Elder Wand," Hermione cut in, "I wouldn't be against it. But I don't suppose you have a plan of what to do with this extremely powerful wand?"

"An extremely powerful _accio_? Okay, fair enough. But I wasn't talking about the wand."

She blinked at him. "The Resurrection Stone? That's been lost since the Final Battle. Harry didn't know where he dropped it in the woods."

'Not according to our drunken conversation after the battle', Ron thought to himself, surprised Hermione didn't also know this. But, after all, it'd been a fluke that Harry had told him the vague location. "Err, that's true. But say we could find it. Couldn't that be used for proof of life or death?"

Hermione shook her head, not catching Ron's hesitance. "Even if we did have it, I wouldn't want to be the one who used it. Don't you remember the story? Of the Peverell brother who wasted away among ghosts?"

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd been about to argue and tell her that he could maybe sort of find the Stone. But at her words an image of his brother had filled his mind. He wondered if Fred would look like his teenage self, or the man he was supposed to have grown up to be. He gave a shudder at either thought. "Maybe, maybe we shouldn't search the forest."

"The point," Hermione pointed her quill at him, not knowing of her husband's internal debate, "is that I hardly see how being Master of Death matters in this or any context! It certainly doesn't make Harry immortal, after all. So I'd prefer to look over the more critical suggestions."

"Right. Of, of course."

But…soon after, when Hermione's cleanly crisp paper had turned into a mess of blots and crossed out suggestions, and where his hair was standing on end and ink marks trailed up and down her tired face…Ron could see barely any resemblance between this and their Hogwarts days. Because sure, Hermione could still research and he was still trying to ease the tension. But they were missing the bloke who always stumbled onto the impossible.

Didn't matter though, they still had to find the idiot. So Ron was pacing Hermione's office. He'd been doing so for the past ten minutes, running a nervous hand through his hair as he did so. If he looked into a mirror, he'd be appalled that his messy hairdo now resembled Harry's. Hermione wasn't pacing. She stared at the large piece of parchment before her (as she had been for the past hour), restlessly tapping a quill at the bottom. The tapping was producing a growing pool of ink, while the only other marks on the sheet were a few bullet-points and sentences angrily scratched off.

They'd gone long past the point where Ron had caught hold of the idea of getting all of MLE and the former DA into a massive grid search of Britain, and had phrased it in just the right way that it took the sleep-deprived Hermione twenty minutes before dismissing it as ridiculous.

In the present, Ron muttered to himself as he paced. He suddenly pivoted to Hermione, an excited grin back in place. "House Elves!"

"No."

"Hear me out, it—"

"It won't work." Hermione's head was in her hand. She stared daggers at the all-but blank paper, as well as the blotted and crossed-out list from George.

"House Elves," Ron repeated, not standing down. "Remember when Dobby found us at Malfoy Manor? He was able to find us and get through the wards! So we go to Kreacher, say 'Master Harry's' in trouble, and _Poof!_ Barely any danger, he'll be careful. Or—wait, hear me out! Kreacher doesn't even have to go. But he can tell us if Harry's alive! Give us a hint about where he is."

Hermione closed her eyes tiredly. "That's a very good idea—"

"Hah! See?"

"—which I tried yesterday. Just like you've surely already tried using your deluminater to locate him," she finished, a note of apology in her voice. "Harry freed Kreacher ages ago so there's no magical connection between them, like there apparently had been between Harry and Dobby. He's very sad and wants to help, but hasn't the faintest where Harry is."

"Oh." Ron deflated. "Think we could try the other missing people?"

"None of the Sweeney victims had House Elves," her correction was gentle. "We always check at the beginning of missing person investigations, remember?"

He did remember. That didn't mean he liked the answer. "How about a different 'magical connection'. Wait, yeah! A way to track bloodlines! You're brilliant, we can find it. No problem!"

"That doesn't exist."

"Don't be like that, you can find some old spell that does it. Or potion! I'll help! I will legitimately help you research, I swear."

"No," Hermione repeated with a stretched strand of patience, "I meant that it doesn't exist. Would have never been legalised by the pureblood-dominated Wizengamot."

"What?"

"A spell that can track down descendants of bloodlines, _verifying any 'illegitimate' children?_ "

Ron opened then closed his mouth, at a loss. "We could create one?"

"You clearly have no idea how difficult spell-crafting is. If you must, bother George about it. But he'll tell you the same." Hermione tapped her quill irritatedly, back to glaring at the uncooperative paper. "Privacy concerns aside, what I would give if the Ministry had reliable tracking of births and deaths alone! But it's always been an impossibility for the same reason: the pureblood families never wanted legislation with the potential to poke into their private lives. Once upon a time, it was even spectacularly controversial to make a spell for Hogwarts to be able to send letters to all magical children."

Ron paced around again, muttering under his breath. "Damn purebloods, ruining things for the rest of us. Privacy concerns, hah!"

Hermione gave a flicker of a smile at her husband's not-entirely-sarcastic response. "Quite." She saw him growing excited again. "If you say another word about stealing a time-turner from the French—"

"DIVINATION!" Ron spouted out with a cry, leaping about. Hermione's head sunk to the desk. He waved at her frantically. "I know you hate the subject, but it's real! Even you have to admit there are some genuine Seers!"

"I never said there weren't any," she mumbled, voice muffled from beneath her hands and rolls of hair. "Not that it will do us any good."

"Of course it would!" Ron scoffed. "We steel a Seer, she peers into a tea cup, and we get Harry's location. There you go!"

"Do you know why I dislike Divination?"

"Because Trelawney's an old bat."

"Because it's an imprecise science!" Hermione's head tilted so that her words became clear. "Divination and prediction is all rather sketch, as two answers can—at once—be both wrong or both right, or either. It doesn't matter how good the Seer is. Even if they told us some information, it would be as likely to be from a different potential future than the one we are actually heading down."

He deflated. Then sunk into a seat, staring at the useless paper. A few minutes of silence crunched by. "Maybe it's hindsight talking, but this was easier at Hogwarts."

Hermione gave a vaguely hysteric cry. "Where luck and coincidences abounded! How three teenagers took down a Dark Lord, I'll never know."

"Multiple times," Ron pointed out grumpily. "Well, not three teenagers. One. I didn't even see Voldemort until the Final Battle. Sometimes I look back and wonder, was it always him? All the really bad luck and all the really good luck, all the connections that we just fell onto? Harry was the one pulling off miracles."

"Who we're currently missing."

"Yeah. Yeah, we are." His head bent over and hands grappled his hair. "That's the problem, isn't it? How do we conjure up some impossibility to find the impossible bloke?"

A few moments of silence passed, then one of them started snorting. Chuckling. Soon laughter was churning up from both of them, the ridiculousness of the situation sweeping to the forefront. Ron didn't know why he was laughing (none of this was remotely funny), but as he wiped mirthful tears from his eyes, he let out something between a sob and a guffaw as he thought that Harry would have found this _hilarious_.

The man had always had the most sarcastic, dark humour.

* * *

 _It was a grim, stale smell. As though his nose had been dunked in a pool infested with maggots. Because it was all at once so much harder to breathe and it wasn't like he was drowning, though he sort of was, and it was bad enough earlier but at least Harry had been here then and he had this…thing about him. Made people think there was still hope._

 _Lockhart was snivelling: he ignored the prat, hands desperately squabbling at the rocks. Ginny couldn't be dead. She couldn't be! She was his infuriating baby sister who'd been, quiet, this year. He hadn't thought anything of it. Hadn't noticed a thing._

 _Harry had been gone ten minutes. There was no sound from beyond the rockslide and he was scaring Lockhart by screaming out in frustration, but none of that mattered. Where the hell was he! Not ten, twenty minutes by now. Surely. Half an hour? The minutes had slowed down, and damn it why couldn't he move the rocks faster! It was still hard to breathe. The stink rattled his throat with nausea._

 _Why hadn't he been standing closer to Harry? Why wasn't he in Harry's place? Ginny was his sister! If anyone was going to fight a basilisk…_

 _Not, not that anyone was fighting a giant snake. They were alive, obviously. They were alive. They were alive._

 _Lockhart was making a choking sound. Ron spun around to shout at him but the words died on his lips. Because Lockhart was no longer leaning against the cave. It was another man—no, a boy. Harry was there, slumped over, green eyes shining with pain. He was whimpering, a hand clutching something embedded in his arm. A white thing. A fang._

 _"No no no!" Ron rushed to him, heart stilled or pumping furiously, tugging the basilisk fang out and flinging it wildly aside. His fingers fumbled over the rushing blood, trying to block the open wound. "S'NOT WHAT HAPPENED!"_

 _"I…I'm sor…sorry," Harry's voice was faint, a whisper as Ron gave up on the arm and clutched at his friend's face, "was…was too late. Ginny, she's…'m sorry…'m sorry…"_

 _"She's alive, IT'S FINE!" Ron roared, screaming at Harry as his eyes flickered open and shut. Ink, dirt, and blood covered their skin. He couldn't tell if Harry was twelve or twenty-six. "DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES, DON'T YOU DARE! YOU'LL BE FINE!"_

 _"…'m sorry…"_

 _"Shut up, SHUT UP! I'M WHO'S SORRY! DON'T DIE, PLEASE DON'T DIE!"_

* * *

Ron awoke with a gasp. His mouth tasted like dust, he felt as though he'd just ran a marathon, and there was a faint prickling of a dream. A nasty one, he thought. One that was already fading fast. It had…been about Hogwarts? A nightmare, definitely that. His rushing heart told him that much.

He closed his eyes, scrunching his nose as he tried to recapture the scene. It had involved Harry, he was pretty sure of that. Something, something bad had happened to him. He recalled blood on his hands, adrenaline in his veins. All of which was maddeningly weird, because he hadn't gotten nightmares in years. Not since the dreams about Fred had faded. So why was he…oh.

The nightmare remained beyond Ron's grasp, but the recent events trickled back into his brain. His head fell to the pillow with an almighty groan. He only faintly noted that sweat was dripping down his skin.

* * *

Lisa was going on (and on and on) about the Rippers. About their lack of recent activity. About how she had a bad feeling. About how people had stopped listening to her. About how the press was out for blood, but only for anything relating to the missing people. About how, no matter how horrific the Sweenies were, the department couldn't single-mindedly focus on that one spree.

Ron came close to telling her why no one gave a damn about the Rippers and that he didn't want company right now, thank you very much (and get the hell out). But he was trying to be more polite these days and she was a friend, so he bit his tongue and let her rant. After a few minutes, it honestly became a bit nice to not be hearing about the Sweenies or minor cases for once.

She drew breath. He thought she was going to continue her spiel that they ought to reexamine the mysterious poisons that had killed the magical creatures, when she instead let out: "Do you smoke?"

"Ah, no?"

Lisa came out of her rant. "Didn't think so. Why the lighter? You've had it this whole meeting." She gestured at his right hand. It'd been sitting on his desk, loosely holding an object.

"Not a lighter." Ron hesitated, for some reason not wanting to tell her. "It's called a deluminator." Instead of explaining what that meant he clicked it twice, capturing then releasing the office's lights. Lisa's eyes widened, a small smile forming.

"Wicked. One of your brother's inventions?"

He was about to answer positively when the truth slipped out. "Albus Dumbledore invented it and left it to me in his will. I recently dug it out of my old school trunk." She was staring at him. No, gaping. "Before you ask, I didn't know him well. Came as a shock."

" _Albus Dumbledore_ gave you that?"

"It's been useful." Ron wasn't sure if he meant this sarcastically or not, though twirled it around his fingers. "Anyway, what was that about poisons?"

"You aren't getting out of this! Deluminator, you called it?" Lisa eagerly leaned forward to peer at it. Ron remembered that she'd been in Ravenclaw. "I don't think I've seen it before."

"It's been in my old trunk, like I said."

A question lurked in her gaze. Ron peered back at her, not about to answer. A staring contest commenced, though she broke first and she leaned away with a grumble.

"Be secretive, what do I care. So! You must see my point about the Rippers—"

* * *

Ron didn't have any time, not really. But Rose was on another 'playdate' with Fred and Roxanne (he never thought he'd be this grateful to George and Angelina), Hermione was taking a much needed nap, he'd side-stepped the reporters (now insisting he make a statement about Harry's death), and he was off resupplying their kitchen.

His first detour wasn't truly a detour. Hermione's favourite ice cream was right by the milk, after all, and only one aisle down was the cookie dough she always craved with pregnancies. Then, if he was getting treats for his wife, something was obviously needed for Rose. So the mangoes and Kinder Eggs were hunted down, tossed into the cart. A new toy for Crookshanks was also grabbed, though he had a feeling the toy mouse would be more enjoyed by his daughter than by the 'wiser-than-thou' cat.

Hermione had been so stressed lately. She'd been crying, too, and after paying for the groceries he spotted a large Waterstone's down the street. He got some of the popular history books she liked: wasn't sure what she already had, so headed for the new releases. Then picture books for Rose. Then colourful bookmarks for both of them, because dear Merlin was his wife and daughter identical.

But those histories could get grim, couldn't they? Best to also pick up something light. Ron knew full well that Hermione had Mills and Boon books hidden in her bedroom dresser, so with a mild flush he grabbed the romances. Romantic comedies, though, that was the ticket. Something to make her laugh, even if the stories turned out to be ridiculous. It seemed like it'd been ages since she'd laughed. Even before Halloween, long before. With the stress of the pregnancy? Balancing being a mum and a Ministry Director? The crime sprees hitting the UK? Him dragging her into his pointless fight with Harry?

Ron took a long look at one of the steamy romances before putting it back on the shelf. He told himself it was because he was already buying a near library of novels. He thought about picking up some flowers as well. Orchids, she liked those. Maybe a bunch of sunflowers while he was at it: they were Ginny's and his mum's favourite.

* * *

"Hello?" The house wasn't quiet, but no one answered the door so Ron let himself in. There were giggles from the children's playroom and he was about to head that way, when he heard a clamouring from the kitchen. This made him raise an eyebrow. He'd expected Ginny to be living off of take away, their mum's cooking, and cereal. But to hear noises from the kitchen when Harry wasn't there…? He set the flowers on a side table, making his way over. The moment he opened the door, he stared in disbelief.

If Ron had wanted more proof that the world had gone insane, he had it in ample supply. Ginny was in front of him, covered in buttery flour, and was either trying to bake a cake or massacre a mixing bowl. He'd bet both. Though he properly stepped into the kitchen he didn't have the nerve to talk for a few minutes.

As she'd been ruthlessly ripping apart almonds with an honest to goodness butcher's knife, he'd been too scared to risk speaking up. Now that she was only wielding a spatula, he figured he'd take the chance. He wondered if maybe he should have brought in the sunflowers?

"You're baking," Ron tried not to sound too incredulous, because the glint in Ginny's eyes made it clear that even the spatula could become lethal. "You're cooking? You?"

"I bake," she said shortly, not pausing in her mad mixing. Only a small portion of the batter was staying in the bowl.

"No, you don't." To prove this, Ron waved at the stacks of burned biscuits (as well as other less discernible 'dishes') behind her. "Are you trying to burn down the house?"

"I'm baking!" Ginny huffed, giving a particularly sharp jab with the spatula. Another wave of batter spewed out of the bowl. "It's a cake. It'll be delicious."

"Uh huh." Ron struggled not to breathe in too much of the smoky air. He realised why Harry had used to lightly joke about not letting her anywhere near his kitchen. "I get it, I do. You want to make a treat for your kids? That's nice. Really, it is. But you aren't…Ginny, you can't cook."

Only the sound of mercilessly beaten batter punctured the silence.

"How about we go to the Burrow." Ron felt an edge of worry. One that had nothing to do with Ginny murdering him with kitchen utensils. Or, at least, almost nothing to do with that. "It'll distract yo…your kids. You know how mum deals with stress. The Burrow's practically bursting with food these days!"

"I'm baking a cake." Ginny sent a glare as her brother hedged off. "It's chocolate and treacle. I tried making a damn tart, but the stupid bloody thing wouldn't work. Why such a complicated dessert is his favourite is beyond me! Completely stupid, idiotic, _stupid_ thing!" Each exclamation was punctured with a furious jab at the batter.

"Tart." Ron's stomach fell. He took another glance at the burned and molten dishes, some of which were still smoking. "Treacle tart? Gin, you…"

"Don't call me that!" She snapped, swinging the spatula and flinging even more batter at him. "But yes, treacle tart. It failed, like I said, because it's a stupid dessert. Before I realised it was so stupid, I thought it'd be a nice surprise for Harry."

His mouth felt dry. He didn't wipe away the mess of chocolate from his robes. "Ginny, look." His words were gentle, said in a tone he'd almost never used with his little sister. "You know how serious this is."

"It's Harry." Ginny cut in matter-of-factly, returning to her 'cake'. "If he waltzed in tomorrow with the Holy Grail or whatnot, I wouldn't be surprised. Nor would you. Nor would anyone, actually, _because it's Harry!_ "

Ron couldn't find a reply. He didn't want to remind her that they hadn't found any of the other missing people. Nor did he want to tell her of the familiar sink in his stomach that appeared whenever Harry was doing something ridiculously dangerous. Or took too long to emerge from a maze. Or was drowning in icy water. Or was hanging limp in Hagrid's arms. He really didn't want to bring up any of that. Mainly because he knew his sister could relate all too well…and because he truly knew how few leads there were.

Ron silently cursed his friend for, yet again, getting into trouble where they couldn't help him. Not that he actually blamed the bloke for getting kidnapped from a highly secure Ministry gala—except that he kind of did, because this was just the sort of thing that'd happen to Harry.

Ginny had started baking! This had gone too far. It'd serve Harry right that, if he came back, he'd find she'd burned their house down.

Except, not _if_ Harry came back. When. Because he was going to, obviously, and when he did he was getting a permanent security detail. He wasn't going to be happy about it, but screw him. The moment Harry showed his head, Ron was going to stuff these burned tarts in his mouth. If the trauma from that didn't stop his habit of being idiotically reckless, he didn't know what would.

* * *

"Come on, you dratted thing! Harry Potter. I want to find Harry Potter. The connection should work both ways: Harry James Potter! Take me to Harry!"

* * *

"It's not just you," was Susan's quiet voice, sitting in the chair across from him. She was loosely holding a vial, cradling it in her palm.

Ron felt a stab of impatience. "I know, it's fine."

"You aren't the first questioned and you're far from the last." She looked about as exhausted as Ron felt, her usually vibrant hair laying in limp ringlets and with no make-up around her blotched eyes. "Everyone's taking it, we need to be as thorough as possible. This isn't about our prob—"

" _I know, Bones,_ " he tried and failed to hold back his annoyance. He contemplated grabbing the vial of Veritaserum and just taking the dose himself. "I'm glad you're rooting out whoever sold the story! I don't mind taking the potion."

Her expression was even more pinched. "Because it's not about you, I swear. I won't ask anything not related to—"

"Bones," Ron said tightly, "I don't know how much of a protest the others made. I'm sorry about that, but right now I don't give a damn. The newspapers are screaming that Harry's dead, you lot are keeping things secret from me, and I just want to get this over with." Without speaking further, he simply stuck out his tongue.

Susan made a noise halfway between amusement and weariness. But she did give him three drops and his mind went mercifully blank, so he found he didn't mind. He was dimly aware that an enchanted truth quill perked up on the table, dipping itself in ink. "What is your full name?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley," his mouth said, teeth and tongue sliding over each other.

"Do you understand that while this is an official interrogation, there is no assumption of guilt, as everyone with knowledge of the Sweeney disappearances is undergoing a similar questioning under Veritaserum?"

"I understand," because Ron did, and at the moment his blank mind couldn't think of anything he'd like more than to tell Susan this.

"Before this, did you verbally agree to be questioned under truth serum?"

"Yes."

Susan consulted a sheet, checking the precise wording. Some vague part of Ron's head wondered how many of these questionings she'd already done. She still seemed nervous and uncertain. "Briefly explain how much knowledge you have of the Sweeney spree."

"I was the lead investigator on the cases," the words flowed out of his mouth without thought. "I know everything the MLE knows that happened up to Halloween. After that, I know roughly what occurred."

"You were the lead investigator?"

His mouth and teeth and tongue supplied the truth. "Due to my actions before Harry's disappearance, you've been edging me off of the spree since you became Head Auror. It's a toss-up whether this was because of my irresponsible actions, the press' focus on my family, or you needing a scapegoat for the lack of leads on the Sweenies."

Susan was silent for a long moment, staring at his emotionless face. After, her words were softer. "Ron, have you ever sold information concerning an MLE case to the media?"

"No."

"Have you ever unofficially discussed anything pertaining to the Sweenies to a reporter?"

"Yes."

"Excuse me?" This was met with silence. She sighed, rephrasing. "What did you discuss and to who?"

"I talked to Ginny Potter after Roger Davies disappeared," Ron easily answered. "I was exploring the idea that his vanishing had to do with his Quidditch career and my sister's an expert on the topic. I've also been giving Ginny updates on Harry, as much as I can."

"Did she ever print anything that used this insider information?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Susan again fell into silence. A nibbled lip. The paper with the agreed-upon questions was set aside and the scurrying quill was flicked off. This being done, she turned back to Ron with an undefinable expression. "Have you been rallying the Aurors against me?"

"No," his mouth didn't mind supplying the truth. Some bit of his mind protested, but the rest eagerly suppressed it.

"Have you been talking to the press about me, or to this department behind my back?"

"No."

"Do you want to be Head Auror?"

"No."

"Are you jealous of Harry Potter?"

"No."

"Did you have anything to do with Harry Potter's disappearance?"

"Yes."

Susan jolted, eyes wide. "What? How!"

The answer was as simple as the rest. "I tricked Harry into attending the Halloween gala through emotional blackmail. If the Sweenies' target had always been Harry, then this didn't matter. But if their plan was to grab the most high profile person at the gala, I was directly responsible for his disappearance."

Susan looked about ready to cry. "But, but you…" she swallowed, gathering herself and strengthening her resolve. "Have you ever done anything illegal?"

"Yes."

"What have you done?"

"In 1992, I broke the Statute of Secrecy by flying a car to Hogwarts. Later that year, I took illegally brewed polyjuice potion—"

A suppressed groan. " _Notable_ illegal activities, please."

"Throughout 1997 and 1998, I snuck around Britain with Harry, who was Undesirable Number One. We committed various crimes during this time, including sneaking into the Ministry of Magic and freeing an unknown amount of muggleborns, and breaking into Gringotts and destroying a good chunk of it and Diagon—"

"Stop. Just, stop." Susan's head sunk into her hands. Her next words were muffled. "Have you committed any crimes since you joined the MLE, not including unofficially talking to your family about cases, apparating in and out of the Ministry, or doing minor pranks on your coworkers?"

"No."

This answer gave way to the longest silence yet. It was so long that the Veritaserum trickled out of Ron's mind, leaving him gasping and clutching at the chair's arms. As he caught his breath and his balance, memory of the past ten minutes organised themselves in his thoughts. He closed his eyes to keep from glancing at the miserable-looking Susan, muttering a low curse as he did so.

"I'm sorry…"

"For interrogating me?" Ron gritted out, still not looking at her. "No, you aren't! You're sorry you didn't find anything incriminatory!"

"I swear, I didn't—"

"We're friends, Bones! What the hell was that? 'Am I jealous of Harry?' I don't want your bloody job!"

"This, I…"

He wrenched his eyes open, glaring daggers as he stood. "Brilliant of you. I agreed to the questioning, after all, can't officially complain. So what if you didn't ask the questions I'd agreed to? I was a trusting idiot and didn't sign anything!"

"I'm so, so sorry…"

Ron noted with a spark of indignation that she'd begun to cry. He wanted to shake her, shout at her. Because how dare she? Boo hoo, she had to deal with reporters when she had stage fright. She'd signed on as Deputy Head, she knew what she was getting into. She should grow a spine and stop seeking a scapegoat!

But he'd never been good with crying women. Not when he was feeling dreadful himself, and damn it if the Veritaserum hadn't revealed a few truths he hadn't been aware of.

"I'm not the mole," he said tersely, stepping away from the desk and his boss. "I'm not the bad guy. I'm not planning on spreading this around the office, but keep attacking me and I'll change my mind. Ta, Bones."

"Ron, wait." He only reluctantly stopped, not glancing back at her wavering voice. "I, I know I must be the last person you want to hear this from. But…the gala wasn't your fault. You must know that."

He stiffened. "I thought I did," was his growled reply, making a fast pace to the exit. "Another truth? You're nothing compared to him. Stop trying to take his place."

Ron exited and slammed the door before Susan could utter a word.

* * *

"You stupid lighter! Yep, that's what I called you. Useless, you are, like I give a damn about the lights! Yeah yeah, _Harry's_ supposed to say _my_ name. But I'm saying his name! Harry Harry Harry. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, Wizarding Saviour, and all around git. Lead me to where he is!"

* * *

Another Sunday. Another huge family dinner. Things had…not calmed down, not at all. But was calm enough that Rose no longer had to be constantly babysat by his siblings and parents. It was calm enough that Hermione had taken a shower, put aside the work, and convinced Ron that seeing his family wouldn't be absolutely dreadful. It helped that he knew there was a taboo over mentioning what the reporters were claiming about Harry. He'd heard that the one and only time Bill had brought up the leaked Pensieve footage with their parents, his mum had nearly hexed him. His dad had pulled his startled oldest son aside and warned against any further mentioning of Lovett's dark claim.

It was quiet. A gathering of Weasleys was bloody well quiet, and Ron felt like he'd been swept into an alternative world as he stepped into the Burrow. Even the kids were subdued, though most were like Rose and were whispering about what treats or stories Uncle Harry would bring back. Vicky was biting her lip. Teddy and Andromeda weren't there, nor was Ginny and her kids. Percy took him aside and murmured that they hadn't been able to drag her to the dinner. She said it was because she had her hands full dealing with work and her children.

"She didn't…" Percy hesitated, glancing around the Burrow's hallway. Oddly, no one was eavesdropping on them. He turned back to his brother. "Have you talked to her?"

"A bit?" Ron wasn't used to Percy acting like this. Rather than his usual serious and detached older sibling, concern etched his face. "She's still not upset?"

"Ginny isn't worried!" Percy pulled him farther away from the crowded living room, voice lowering. "I tried to explain how serious this was, that these Sweeney people aren't something to laugh at. That there are whispers, do you understand? More like shouts! Of that nasty business with the magical creatures, Ministry security being dashed, that horrid video, and murmurs of a Dark Lord—"

"There's no Dark Lord," Ron rebutted, glancing into the living room where Hermione was giving him a curious but understanding look. He got the sense they'd already had this conversation. "Ginny's fine, stop fretting over her. Harry hasn't been missing a month, she's not in denial or something."

Percy gazed at him, expression tightening and softening all at once. His glasses were askew on his nose. He looked remarkably like their father. "Has Ginny talked to you about her work?"

Her work? At the…the _Prophet_. Ron swallowed, not having really considered this. "Have the other reporters been giving her trouble? I know she hates her editor but, they've been surrounding the Ministry, not our family. There must be some unwritten code for personal stuff?"

Percy hesitated. "She's been working mainly from home, that's all she'll say."

Further comment was broken by the Tonks' entrance. Andromeda seemed aggravated and Teddy petulant, hanging back behind his grandmum. It was all too clear who'd been dragged to the event.

* * *

"Doesn't mean he vanished."

Heads jerked around. The statement had sliced through the family dinner, where the only previous noise had been small snuffles and the scraping of forks (playing with rather than eating food). It had been the quietest Sunday evening any of them could remember. The only 'interruption' had been Molly pausing after serving dinner to look around at them as her eyes filled with tears. Arthur had followed her rush into the kitchen, only to poke his head back into the concerned room to say she'd be fine and they should continue the meal.

Almost everybody had, at some point, went into the kitchen to check on her. But each returned to the table soon enough with a slouch in their step, even more reluctant to talk than before.

"It really doesn't." Bill hesitated, glanced at his wife, then thickly continued. "The vanishing wizards? With Harry, his capture was caught by security footage. There were witnesses to some of it. That's different to what happened to the vanished people with the Sweenies. So it might not be the same thing?"

Silence resettled, only to be punctured again.

"Could be a kidnapping," Percy spoke up, forming the words carefully. "A 'regular' kidnapping. This might have nothing to do with the Sweenies and everything to do with him being…him."

"Exactly!" Bill grasped onto the agreement. "It's a different thing. Even if something happened to all those others—though we don't even know that for sure—Harry was kidnapped. For all we know, they're just slow about sending a ransom demand. Bloody incompetent criminals, most like."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. They both knew how unlikely parts of that were, but neither wanted to dismiss the possibility. Nor did they want to shatter the optimism that had hit the table.

"Even if it's not about ransom," Audrey chimed in, "who's to say they're as good at keeping people hostage as those other blokes? Ginny might have the right idea. Harry could easily come waltzing back any day now!"

* * *

Hermione hesitated, having halted in their doorway and not walking all the way into their house. Ron, having set down Rose as she scampered off, turned back to his wife. "They mean well."

"Yeah, course they do."

She walked in, closing the front door behind her. Her footsteps were light, breathing light, touch soft. "They're only grasping onto things."

"I know. I'm not upset."

Hermione stared at him, gaze lost. "You need to get more rest."

"I sleep plenty—"

"You say that like you think I'll believe you!" She cupped Ron's chin, peering at him with large and exhausted eyes. "Come to bed, love."

Ron forced out a chuckle, cradling her fingers in his. "Course. Don't worry so much."

* * *

Ron didn't get any sleep that night. It took Hermione an hour of restless rolling before her breathing quieted. He gave it another ten minutes before he crept out of bed and silently made his way downstairs. The case files were scattered over the dining room table. He wasn't supposed to have these, but his 'unofficial Auror spy network' was finally coming in handy.

He collapsed onto a chair, pulling a file towards him with a yawn.

* * *

It was Diggle. Ron was surprised but unsurprised when he heard, when he joined the rest in lingering in the main MLE corridor as Diggle was taken away for further questioning.

"Liked the traditional ways," Dennis muttered as the crowd talked amongst themselves (after the person to gawk at had passed with accompanying guards). "Didn't like you lot shaking things up. Was fine with favouritism, but thought he was on the wrong end of it."

"Why now, then?" Ron whispered back, watching the door Diggle and the guards had passed through. "If his problem was with Harry…"

"Wasn't just with Harry. Or with you." Dennis shook his head. "Wasn't fond of having to answer to two women, especially Hermione."

"Because she's muggleborn?"

It was the first time Dennis hesitated. "Because she ticks off all the boxes. Bones was ranting that Diggle said some nasty stuff under Veritaserum."

"Like what?" A hefty silence. "The hell did he say about Hermione?" Dennis looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "Creevey, if you don't answer me…"

"He didn't like having to answer to a black woman," Dennis finally admitted, flushing. "What do you think he said?"

* * *

Her door was open. He knocked on the side of it, watching as she paced.

"Whatever you want to say, it's not needed," was her terse greeting, not glancing at him. "Diggle's been selling information to the media, we've found out, end of story."

"Hermione."

A hand wound through her hair, nettling it, knotting it. "He thought we were playing favourites and didn't like perceived nepotism when it didn't help him. That's it."

Ron stepped forward. "It isn't. What did he say about you?"

"Nothing."

"Hermione, you can't—"

"It's nothing!" She spun to face him, expression fierce. "Nothing I haven't heard before or that I won't hear a hundred times again. It's nothing!"

Ron fell silent for a long moment. "Okay," he moved towards her, taking her hand, "okay, it's nothing."

"Thank you."

"But if it's all the same to you," he pretended not to hear her groan, "I'm feeling rather put out and want to stay here for awhile."

Hermione stared at him. Her lips twitched and her wand flicked at the door, closing it. "You're incredibly silly."

"You're incredibly stubborn. What a match, eh?" He leaned closer, arms wrapping around her as noses touched. "If you tell me, right now, that it isn't bothering you I'll believe you. Look at me, tell me that, and I won't say another word."

She stared at him before blinking rapidly. Looked back down at his mouth.

He manoeuvred them towards the couch. "I can take a guess what he said, a damn good guess, but I'm pants at Legilimency. If you tell me what's bothering you, maybe I can help." They sat on the cushions, Hermione's head sliding down to rest on Ron's shoulder. He bundled her close to him. "Well," he tried again after a deep silence, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "I won't bore you with a reminder of how brilliant and gorgeous you are. Or how sexy you are, even when curled up in bed with a messy bun, reading a book thicker than my head. Or, no, _especially_ how you look curled up in bed."

"Ron."

"Or," he continued right ahead, "I could say you're the most determined, scarily ambitious person I know. You have nine different, in-depth plans to become Minister of Magic! Ten, if you include the wonky one involving flobberworms and banana peels."

"Ron," some energy had returned to her voice, "husband, we agreed to never mention that. Ever."

"Doesn't take away from my point, which is that you're too perfect to be real. What'd you do to be this amazing? Sell your soul with some horribly dark curse or ritual? Ohh, did I marry a Dark Lady? Fancy that," he grinned, face pressed against hers, "I probably shouldn't be turned on by that, but you…"

"Stop!" Hermione muffled a small laugh and Ron jotted up a victorious point. "Can you not be ridiculous?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Thank you, but I meant what I said." A sorrowful type of seriousness returned to her voice. "I'm used to people like Diggle. It's only that…every time I think we're improving this world, we seem to be stumbling back to square one. Which I understand. I know it all only seems darker. But is the world really changing?"

"Of course it is," he mumbled to her. "Look at all you've done! All the rights you've passed into law."

"But it isn't enough! I always think it's heading in the right direction for Rose to not have to deal with this nonsense. But then some idiot strolls in saying the n-word—"

"He called you WHAT?" Ron jolted, heated fury blasting away any humour.

"Not now! I don't care about me! I don't want our daughter to ever be in tears!" Hermione hesitated, glancing at her stomach. Though eyeing his wand and the door wistfully, Ron forced himself to sit back down. "Our kids. I don't…it isn't fair. They're going to have to deal with this too. I kept thinking: if I was smart enough and fast enough? Things like this take generations, but after the war everything was being shaken up. I thought it'd be enough."

"They'll live in a peaceful world."

"Really? A world where Harry can get kidnapped and Diggle can make a fortune off of it?"

"A world where Diggle's being arrested and where we'll find Harry. Listen!" He turned her chin back to him, her eyes glistening. "There are set-backs. But I know it's getting better and I honestly don't think it'll matter for Rosie. Worst case, she'll kick any bigots in the shins and lecture their ears off."

She answered with a weak smile. "I was under the impression her overprotective father would take care of any ruffians."

"Have you met our daughter?" The light tone and chuckle took away any semblance of a hard meaning from the words. "She's like every Granger and Weasley girl: tough to the bones and with a nasty right hook."

Hermione paused. "If you've been teaching Rose to punch—"

"Like I'll have to teach her. I wasn't joking about Grangers/Weasleys! It's something in the genes or water, I'm positive. Sure, Ginny was more fond of biting than punching, but Rose's all you."

"Biting…?"

"I've never shown you my war scars? Blimey." Ron rolled up a sleeve, pointing at a narrow etch of a line. "She was more destructive than Fred and George put together. My baby sister, age five: really wanted the last chocolate biscuit. Scar down my left leg?"

"You don't have a scar down either leg. Also, that on your arm is a paper cut."

" _Scar down my left leg,_ " he emphasised, "Ginny, age ten. Was annoyed she wasn't going to Hogwarts too, so gripped onto me like a grindylow the whole day before. Scars on my palms—"

"You don't have scars on your—"

" _Scars on my palms_ : Ginny, age eighteen."

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't take lightly to me playing the protective big brother." Ron gave a floppy grin. "Apparently I got it topsy-turvy and warned Ginny to not hurt Harry. She thought I was saying the opposite, so gripped incredibly hard with her insanely sharp nails. Apologised after, so there's that. But yes. Biting. Or long fingernails. So I'm rather hoping Rose's inherited your right hook, because that's mildly less terrifying."

Hermione had softened over the past minute, leaning into him as her relaxed breath tickled his neck. She didn't protest when he moved them, cupping her head into a kiss. Arms wrapped around him, his hands curled up in her hair, and for a blissful moment he forgot about everything else.

As she shuffled and looped her legs around him, he trailed kisses down her neck and wondered if he'd said the right words. He'd distracted her (as she was currently nibbling his earlobe), but he was second-guessing his joking these days. She was right, there were far larger issues at play. He wanted to help, of course he did. But he wasn't a role model or an activist: that had always been Hermione. Or Harry, when society forced him into it. As for him? He wasn't sexist, wasn't racist, and didn't give a whit about blood. But he'd won the societal jackpot for all of them.

His fingers roved the crease between her blouse and skin, picking at the fabric without touching the buttons. She'd stopped kissing; leaned against him with heavy breaths. He couldn't see her expression, only her hair that he'd undone from a braid.

"I love you," he said softly, firmly, mouth on the top of her head. "The world's complicated and messy and moronic. But I love you and I'll always be here. Right here. We'll be okay, you'll see. Us, Rosie, and the baby."

* * *

When Ron got home he took something from his pocket, staring at it for a long, hard moment. He clicked it once, capturing the light in the hallway. He flicked it into the air once or twice, clicked it again, and strode forward with a sour look. There was a pressure behind his eyes which he furiously blinked away. Crookshanks—reclining on his back—gave him an annoyed mew for not scratching his belly as he passed.

Useless deluminator. He was chucking it back in his old trunk.

* * *

It was nearing the end of November. Their baby was due just before Christmas. They hadn't decided on names yet, hadn't discussed it in a while.

There were clamouring reporters, there was a stoically-in-denial sister, there was a mother who'd barely left her kitchen since Halloween. There were friends he still hadn't called back. There was a wife, a daughter, siblings, and little kids scampering underfoot. There were atrociously long days which were glaringly loud and offensively quiet at the same time…

There was a fidgeting Susan Bones standing in his office door. By the time Ron noticed her and had turned in his chair, he'd gotten the sense she'd been there for several minutes. She'd lost weight. Well, he had too. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lost his appetite.

"Whatever it is, we don't have to talk." Ron swivelled back around to his desk as he kept his tone calm. They hadn't spoken since the truth potion incident and he was all for leaving it buried. "The reports of inferi on the Isle of Skye was nonsense; muggle prank, full report's been filed. If you're here about the Veritaserum, I don't want to hear it. Ditto about my sister, or reporters, or Hermione's stubborn refusal of pregnancy leave."

"The Sweenies struck again."

He froze, hand reaching for a quill. He scowled down at the parchment. "Bound to happen eventually. Good luck on that disaster."

"Ron, they—they took three people."


	18. A Flower's Thorn

**A/N:** So I've been a busy wee no-maj, but that's no excuse for letting this story hang. Nor is it an excuse to have lost track of a number of reviews! Though I am SO INCREDIBLY SORRY AND THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! I'm also sorry that, according to your messages, I accidentally foreshadowed that the rest of the Potters or Hermione had been taken. They're all safe, I hadn't meant to hint at that!

As should be clear by now, I can't write children. I try, I do, but I can never keep their ages/social development straight. Further complicating that I screwed up and blanked at the start that Rose and Albus are canonically the same age. Oops? I'll fix it eventually, but for now please just nod along with the screw-ball kid antics. Thank you abcd-hp for pointing this out!

Finally, an enormous THANK YOU SO MUCH to areyousatisfied, Sindhuja, Fred, HappyTerrier (awesome name), noting, Maiden of the Heavens, conjurewithrisk, nellysh, Mists, ComicTransMS, MissMiaIrisPotter, abcd-hp, and Lise Steiner for taking the time to review! I am incredibly appreciative and, though I replied to some of you, my organisation system is rubbish and I know that some of your messages fell through the tracks. I cannot apologise enough, but I do hope you enjoy this new chapter.

* * *

Orla Quirke sent Ron one of the most desperate, pleading looks he'd ever seen. He easily dismissed it, sipping his tea and glancing around the room. It reminded him of McGonagall's Headmistress' office the few times he'd seen it: organised high-end items, with drabs of exploding tartan in hidden nooks. Or hidden wild haggis. He'd never been there long enough to find out if the last actually existed, and she'd given him a dour look the one time he'd dared to ask. (In his defence, the roly-poly thing that'd hid by the portraits could have been little else, and ex-Headmaster Dippet had given him a telling wink as the Scotswoman snapped at him about entertaining ridiculous stereotypes).

There was no haggis in this room and the only tartan was sheaves of Burberry over the armchair. Ron entirely blamed Gabrielle and osmosis for any and all knowledge of designer brands—mad mini-Veela with her Hermès and Louis Vuitton obsession.

"Sir? Sir!"

"It builds character," Ron told his potentially-new Auror partner, mind having drifted to the hilarious sight that had been Fleur's and Hermione's joint confusion when presented with Gabby's sprawling collection of Chanel perfume ("You do not _use it_ Fleur, mon dieu! You do not touch it! 'Ow are we related?"). His gaze shifted to the diplomas and hand-shaking photos above the mantlepiece, getting back on track. "He can tell you aren't a cat person, give it time."

In answer, the tabby cat reclining on Orla's lap attempted to scratch her again. He hissed when she shakily tried to lift him. He also made no attempt to stop using her as a chair.

"Don't you have a cat?" She'd quickly gotten all body parts out of reach of the claws. Well out of reach: her hands were flung up in the air. "You must know how to handle this. Get him off me!"

"Eh, Cocoa's being friendly." To demonstrate Ron got up and scratched the cat's belly, making the animal roll over and stretch with a low purr. He wondered if Abercrombie was more capable of handling pesky felines. Shame he was out with a nasty bout of dragonpox. The wizard moved to the fireplace, leaving Orla with a dour tabby flexing his claws. "He likes belly rubs, don't go near his tail or paws. They don't like that. Or scratch the top of his head and behind his ears. Roughly though, it's one of the places he can't reach. Do it right and he'll adopt you." His focus had turned to the pictures, gaze narrowing. "Notice anything about these photos?"

" _A cat's attacking my blouse!_ " Orla scampered as Cocoa climbed on top of her. "Oh god, he's going for my head! No no no, I don't want him adopting me! No Cocoa! Bad Cocoa!"

"He can smell fear." Ron didn't look over. "Lo, the photos of Tremaine. The ones in the back show our victim and Shacklebolt, alongside other leaders and big-wigs. But d'ya see which ones are at the front?"

"Get him off me!"

"Her with her husband and her cat, or helping the homeless and shaking hands with veterans." Ron fell silent as Orla's struggle with the tabby escalated. "I don't think Tremaine's selflessness is an act. You know how rare that is?"

" _He's poking my hair!_ "

"Stiff upper lip, Quirke." He eyed the photos more closely, where the ones containing prominent figures were almost all pushed to the back (in favour of family photos or charity shots). But there was one exception. He took the frame in question down, gazing at the two people smiling at each other at an official looking table. "She knows Harry."

"What!" came Orla's aggrieved voice. Cocoa had decided to use her head as a recliner and was currently licking her nose, paws swiping at her ears.

"A photo of Cecilia Tremaine and Harry Potter." Ron waved the picture in question. He also gave Orla a pointed glance until she gingerly attempted to separate the cat from her hair. He returned to frowning at the picture. He'd been wrong: Ginny was in the frame too, with a hand on Harry's shoulder and snickering as the other two laughed. Tremaine's face could barely be seen through her brown hair cascading about as she shook with laughter. They were all dressed formally. Between chuckles Harry gave his wife an adoring look, smile crinkling further at her saucy wink. The photo restarted and the three burst into laughter. "Maybe some committee they were on? Or a—"

"It was a charity dinner for St. Mungo's Children's Wing last Summer," came a hoarse voice from the doorway. Ron glanced up, meeting the scraggly and exhausted face of Jason Tremaine. "We were big donors, along with the Potters. Fancy dinners aren't my thing, but Cecilia had wanted an excuse to wear her new dress robes. Came home raving about the Potters. She'd been an admirer before and was thrilled he actually cared about the kids; that's pretty rare at these functions." He scrubbed his chin, demeanour further drooping. "We were both sad to hear about his…about his disappearance."

Ron replaced the picture as the wizards returned to the couch. He made a slight diversion to rescue a grateful Orla from the cat, who cheerfully wrapped himself around his arms. "Mr. Tremaine—"

"Jason. It's Jason." A hand was scrubbed through his brown hair with strands of salt and pepper. He had the look of someone young who'd decided to appear dignified before their time. Classically handsome, worry lines stretched his face. They weren't too deep (unlike his laugh lines), as though he wasn't used to stretching his features like this.

"Jason," Ron returned to their discussion, "like I said before, we're here to support you and do everything we can to find your wife. If you need another break, it's absolutely fine. This isn't an interrogation. Would you like me to call someone? Family, a friend?"

Jason shook his head, petting his arching cat as the feline jumped to him. "Is, do you think—" the words struggled to come out, "tell me it's not the same people. That awful spree, tell me it's not them!"

Ron let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry. I can't do that."

"The Sweenies stopped!"

"They were taking a break," Orla spoke up, flinching as Jason's suddenly harsh stare met her's. "Criminals sometimes stay low after a high-profile crime. We knew they were going to start up again after Halloween, though we weren't expecting them to take three people."

Jason didn't miss her slip. " _Three?_ Who else was taken? The Sweenies always take one! This isn't like them, that's proof! These kidnappers must want a ransom, we have tonnes of money from my family! Cecilia must be fine!"

Ron let out a low exhale. There hadn't been a ransom demand and he had little hope that would change. "It is a partly different MO but…Jason, Mr. Tremaine, look. We're treating this as a worst-case scenario and assuming this is an escalation by the Sweenies. If it means we're being overzealous, that's fine with us. We'll also look at different avenues of investigation, but we want to cover every base. Alright?" A small, jerking nod. "None of these three disappearances have gotten out to the public yet. While I fully intended on telling you everything, the highest priority should be learning how Cecilia vanished and how we could find her. That's why we were asking you those questions before." The other wizard gulped before mutely nodding, eyes downcast and hand resting on his cat's purring stomach. "You're right, this is a change for the Sweenies and we're investigating that. The other new victims—both of whom were also taken on their way to work this morning—are Vanessa Franklin and Sebastian Oliveby. Franklin is a pediatric Healer at St. Mungo's who volunteered at an orphanage outside of the city. Oliveby is a social worker in Surrey whose pay checks largely went to charities."

His eyes had darted up at the Senior Auror's purposefully calm words, frightful and wide. "Cecilia's a pro-bono lawyer."

"I know."

"We take in foster kids!"

Ron scrubbed the back of this neck, all of this hitting too close to home. He avoided glancing at the picture. "All three work with disadvantaged kids. A preliminary look at their records show that they're spotless. That is, there's no skeletons in the closet." Jason's horrified expression hadn't changed, so he wasn't too put off about the lack of privacy. "If this is the Sweenies there's no reason for them to 'seek out' sympathetic victims, as the press already hates the kidnappers."

"But why?" Jason asked in a croaky voice, head turning from one Auror to the other. "Why them? Why my wife? You said it, she's never harmed anyone. She never would! She got up early, was walking through Diagon, and then, and then…"

"We're looking for a pattern," Orla said soothingly, looking about ready to get up and give the lost man a hug. "This case has only just begun. The entire department is looking for her, don't lose hope. We'll figure this out."

Which was bollocks, Ron knew (while he gave a firm nod of agreement). They weren't any closer to finding the victims. Better yet, the pattern was bloody well obvious! The victims right after Harry were charity workers, each with a golden heart and a soft spot for orphans. It was more of the same, except that they'd been specifically targeted. There was no denying it. Which changed everything: the Sweenies were laughing at them.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tremaine?" Orla's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "I have a different question. Had you or your wife previously met Mr. Potter before that photo was taken?"

He blinked at the change of topic. "No. In passing, I guess."

"In passing?"

Jason's shoulders moved in a shrug. "Cecilia's a Harpies fan. She was raving for a week about having gotten Mrs. Potter's signature a few years back."

Orla nodded, brow scrunched. "Does she also like the Falcons?"

"Huh?"

"The Falmouth Falcons." She wasn't put off by Jason's shaking head. "This next question might sound odd, but stay with me. Have you or your wife come across any magical creatures in the past few days?"

Ron raised his eyebrows, as did Jason. "Ah, no."

"Even something small, say a dead flobberworm?" Orla pressed.

"Really, nothing. Though I can't speak for Cecilia."

* * *

After, in the corridor outside the flat, Ron motioned for Orla to pause. Jason had seen them out, his voice having grown more hoarse and the grip around his cat more tight.

"You were helping on the Ripper case?" Ron asked, continuing on before she could answer. "Stupid question, course you have. Everyone on the force has. Better question: you're sniffing for a connection between the Rippers and the Sweenies?"

"Yes sir." A fidgeting foot and nibbled lip. "Sorry if I overstepped."

"Don't be daft. You've overstepped plenty of times, but that wasn't one of them. Why do you think there's a connection?"

She glanced around, not as comfortable as he was with chatting in the hallway with flats on either side. "It's a bit much of a coincidence, don't you think? Two crime sprees hitting London at once?"

"It's London. There's always more than two sprees going on." Ron surveyed her. "Plus the crimes weren't happening at the same time, there was an overlap. The Rippers started earlier and have since hedged off."

"I know. It was just a thought."

He softened, remembering he wasn't always clear when playing devil's advocate. "It's a good thought. Might be something, might not, but it definitely won't be anything if you can't support it. Why do you think there's a connection?"

"It's only a feeling," Orla let out a low _swoosh_. "That's all."

"Your gut, huh?"

"Yeah."

Ron gave her a faint smile, liking her more by the minute. "That feeling's saved my neck plenty of times."

* * *

"Your first major investigation?" Ron said when they were back at the office, tossing files over his shoulder and assuming Orla would catch them. Her squeaks and clamouring answered both in the affirmative. "Don't worry, that's not a bad thing. It's good to have someone with a fresh eye." He glossed over that she wasn't actually his Auror partner. She was fine, she'd learn.

"Sir? Should you be toss— _eek!_ "

Ron turned after the last file, seeing that she had indeed caught them (though looked a touch flustered). "It's just parchment, don't fret. Some crumpling won't ruin them."

She remained doubtful, setting them gingerly on Ron's crowded desk. She then straightened the lopsided pile sheepishly. He chuckled at the sight.

"You'd get along with Hermione. The moment she stepped into this place she was attacking the 'shoddy organisation'." He flipped open a folder, scanning it. "A year in and she was already flipping things on their head! Think Harry and I were the only ones she never converted to her spelled filing system."

"You don't like that system? I did wonder about the physical folders."

"Being able to see and match up details of any criminal cases, all with a flick of my wand at my desk?" Ron gave a bark of laughter. "Course I like it. My wife's a genius. But see, I learned something very important back at Hogwarts: an annoyed Hermione Granger is a sexy Hermione Granger." He halted, not having meant to say that. But a glance at Orla's bright face reminded him that she was MLE's resident romantic and matchmaker. "Anyway, me sticking to the 'old-fashioned' folders started as a joke. Though I'm fond of it now."

"And Mr. Potter?"

"What?"

"You said he also didn't use her system."

Ron started, not having noticed he'd mentioned the man. "Harry and Hermione are like siblings, have been practically since we all met. They're also the most stubborn people I know and tend to get competitive." He scratched his ear, trying to remember. "I think Harry justified sticking to folders by saying it'd be good for Hermione to have some disagreement. But that was also right after she'd 'accidentally' dyed his hair blue before he was accepting an Order of Merlin. So, there might've been another reason he stuck to the folder system."

He slowly realised that Orla was staring at him, slack-jawed. He was confused before the reason dawned on him.

"Oh! Right, the prank wasn't a big deal." Ron waved off. "Harry hates these awards. As do Hermione and I, really, so we've made a habit of sabotaging the acceptance ceremony for the others. It, uh, sort of sounds weird said aloud, but it's a laugh. You see, Harry wasn't annoyed about the dye. He was irritated about the blue. Hermione had recruited me to tell him that he'd be a ginger if he used the new 'shampoo'. He was all chuffed about it. Bit of a let down, I suppose."

Orla still looked faint. "How many Orders of Merlin does Mr. Potter have?"

"A few?" He scratched his head. "Two 1st classes, at least, and a couple or more of the 2nd and 3rd class ones. Give or take."

"How, how many do you have?"

Ron was regretting having brought this up. "Err, three."

"Three!"

Another annoyed hair ruffle. "A 1st class for helping defeat Voldemort, a 2nd class for fighting in the war, and a 3rd class for my work on the Plymouth Poisoning case. They're stuffed in some drawer at home. Or, wait no, they're hanging up at my parents'. Dad and Mum were over the moon so I gave the awards to them."

She seemed to shrink until all that was left were her wide eyes.

"I'm a very prestigious wizard, you know. War hero, part of the Golden Trio, blah blah blah." Ron sent her a forced grin, hoping she'd stop looking at him like that. "Used to wish for fame. Then I got my head on straight and realised it was a pain in the arse. Now. You ready to go over these folders?"

* * *

 _Excerpt from the publication, 'Pure Politics Periodical':_

—touchy to say, but since Lord Harry Potter's disappearance Lady Ginevra (Ginny) Potter has been nearly as absent as her dearly departed husband. Ginevra's few scant public excursions saw her and her children in the company of her many brothers. Forever in a hurry, she has yet to answer questions from reporters (though she herself is one). The only official announcement from any of the Potters or the Weasleys was a written statement asking for privacy at this time and thanking the many well-wishers.

Percival (Percy) Weasley and Hermione Granger have been the only ones who have addressed the reporters, though both have only done so in terms of their Ministry appointments. Mrs. Granger—a 'modern' muggleborn woman who is in charge of the Magical Law Enforcement and who refused to take her husband's surname—has been tight-lipped on her brother-in-law's disappearance but insists that they are doing everything possible to catch the fowl Sweenies. Yet, numerous senior officials have anonymously stated their disapproval with how this situation has been handled.

* * *

"I thought we'd decided not to live in the past through our kids. No memorial names, we agreed! Elizabeth or Cosette are lovely for a girl, and I quite like Austen or Hugo if we have a boy. But I'm open to any suggestions you have, EXCEPT for names honouring people who have died. There's enough macabre things in our lives, thank you. I don't wish to add to it or to burden our child."

"Wow. Alright, first off? I was suggesting Rubeus or Luna. Last I checked neither of them are dead. Also, don't think you're pulling one off on me. I know what you're up to with those names! I think it's grand you love to read: absolutely peachy. But we aren't naming our kid after Victor Hugo or Jane Austen."

"Mine are lovely suggestions! Elizabeth and Hugo are especially nice."

"We aren't naming our kid after a literary character! Are you forgetting your rants about your parents' Shakespearean choice?"

"Because my parents were out of their minds. I'm suggesting perfectly normal names. If they happen to share similarities with my favourite authors and their main characters, what of it? I'm not actually against your choices. But Ginny's been talking about using 'Luna' and, while I love Hagrid dearly, his first name is a twinge too unusual for my taste. Which I know shouldn't be a problem, yes! But my first name was rather traumatising as a child and I'd prefer not to put our hypothetical son through that."

"…okay, fair point about Hagrid. Can we think about Rubeus for a middle name? Ginny's using 'Luna'? Didn't know that. Though would it be that tragic if we repeated names? Also…can we talk about the nundo in the room?"

"We aren't naming our child Harry. It isn't happening."

"I wasn't saying we should. Hate the idea of it. But there's betting in the papers, did you see that? Everyone's convinced there's about to be a little Harry or Harriet Weasley. Thought we should at least address it, terrible idea that it is."

"Fine, we've addressed it."

"Glad we agree on that at least. How about we compromise. If it's a girl, I get to pick the first name and you pick the middle. If it's a boy, you pick the first name and I pick the middle. Neither of us can choose a name of someone we know who's died. Or is, you know, missing. On that note: first name Hannah if it's a girl or middle name Rubeus if it's a boy?"

"That's a very good idea. If it's a boy, Hugo for his first name. If it's a girl, Elizabeth for her middle. So…oh my. Hugo Rubeus or Hannah Elizabeth Weasley? Is that, have we figured it out?"

"Holy Dumbledore, I think that's it. About time! Was convinced I'd have to scribble a name on the birth certificate while you were out on pain meds."

"You were planning on WHAT?!"

* * *

 _Excerpt from 'Witch Weekly':_

—I've never made a secret of my past. Depression is something that should be met head-on, and if talking about my experience with this could help anyone I will do so enthusiastically.

In my thirties, I didn't deal with my divorce in a healthy way and sunk into a dark place. I thought it was all my fault, that if I'd only been a better wife Jacob wouldn't have sought company elsewhere. I only learnt the phrase 'substance abuse' later, but it fit me during that time to a tea. A reliance on cheering charms, overdoing doses of mallowsweet: it's a slippery slope.

Unfortunately, I see the same signs in Ginny Potter. Losing a husband so horribly and left with two young children with a third on the way? That's even setting aside her history of war trauma and mental illness. Dear listeners, I know the signs of an addict like I know the back of my hand. Walking about in a daze, inappropriate laughter, a quick and violent temper, and a startling weight loss? The poor woman. The poor children!

I'm not saying that child protective services necessarily should intervene, but she needs substantial help.

* * *

"Hey." Ron rapped the doorframe, peering through the open entrance at the pale Interim Head Auror. Bones tiredly looked up from a tower of paperwork. Graphs and figures of cases whirled around her above the desk, partly obscuring his view. "You owe me a favour. You owe me a number of favours, actually, and while I'm not one to hold grudges…"

"What do you want?" was her faint sigh, placing down her quill. A wave and the conjured graphs flew back down, rustling the paperwork to sign as they did so.

He properly came in, closing the door. He didn't take the seat that wasn't offered. "Orla Quirke as my Auror Partner. Official Auror Partner, not this one-off thing."

"Good choice."

"McLaggen off the Sweeney spree."

A rubbed forehead. "Dmitri hasn't stopped complaining about him since they came back from the States. I'll phase him out."

"I want back on the spree."

"Weasley…"

"I don't give a damn about the reporters!" Ron took a step forward. "What're you playing at, showing me more victims before sending a memo, 'Oh no, I'm sorry, we're tossing this case away from you AGAIN because Lisa needs help'? Dmitri will need more help. He'd welcome more help! He can stay the lead, I don't care. But don't you dare shove me off on the Rippers."

Bones looked down at the papers, forlorn. "I'll talk to Dmitri about it, that's all I can promise. You know it's perfectly reasonable."

Ron pursed his mouth, reluctant to outright agree. "Last thing. Stop attacking Cho Chang about Roger Davies' crimes. Her connection got leaked to the press and I think she's innocent. At the very least, I know you don't have a case to stand on. Stop dragging it out! Question her under Veritaserum and, when you're convinced you screwed up, do everything you can to repair her name. Don't you _dare_ act like Fudge."

Confusion crossed her face. "Fudge?"

"The old, incompetent Minister who denied Voldemort's return and scapegoated Harry!" Ron didn't know how pissed off he was until just that moment. "Things are only going slowly with Chang because you want to be seen as getting somewhere with the Sweenies. If I have to go to Hermione or the press, I will. But you owe me _and it's the right thing to do!_ "

Bones gave the biggest sigh yet, her voice having a squeaky quality to it. "I'll push forward the Veritaserum questioning. I'll also talk to Dmitri about you and McLaggen, but there's no promises for the last."

"What about Quirke?"

"Of course she can be your partner." Bones recovered her composure enough to roll her eyes. "Merlin Weasley, I'm thrilled you're willing to work with someone!"

Ron calmed down, looking forward to leaving. "Yeah well, she's a funny person. Happy to learn."

She frowned, remembering something. "Hold on. Wasn't Quirke the Junior Auror with the 'odd' notebook?"

"So she made some weird comments," he waved away.

"Quirke's the one trying to pair up half the department," Bones said bluntly.

"She's enthusiastic but harmless."

* * *

"LO!" Ron called out at the entrance of Orla's small office, making her spin around with a high-pitched _squeak!_ "You're my official Auror Partner. Congrats and good luck, you'll need it. We'll be back on the Sweenies soon."

"Oh! Oh my gosh, Senior Auror Weasley thank you, I—"

"No more comments about arses," he barely muffled a smirk as Orla's wide beam switched to a bright blush, "and no matchmaking people if they have a significant other. That includes my wife and I, got it? If you must talk about arses, make sure you get the right ones paired up."

"Err, right. Sorry sir."

"Also, enough with speculating about sexualities. If your friends are fine with it, alright, and I get water cooler gossip. But there's a time and a place."

"…sorry."

"Good." Ron coughed. "Glad we had this talk. But this is a promotion for you and certain behaviours are expected."

"Like not pranking the Head Auror?" Seeing his scowl she ducked her head, smiling to herself.

"Yes, like not pranking the Head Auror." He wondered what had possessed him to start this conversation. Or why he'd thought Quirke's sharp mind was worth dealing with her nonsense. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I."

"Thank you, Senior Auror Weasley! Sir! Abercrombie and I won't let you down, you'll see."

"Eh?"

"Abercrombie and I, sir. We're a package deal. He'll be over the moon when he gets back from hospital—that is, once the green boils have stopped bursting."

"…this is going to be a fun few months, won't it."

"The very best! Ooo, I'm so excited!"

* * *

Sunday family dinners had gotten awkward. They had always been a good deal of many things, but never awkward. Around the time when Ron found himself unironically nodding along to Percy's spiel about the sudden, extreme drop in price for phoenix tears, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Looking away from his brother's moans about how this changing luxury item would throw off the entire potions market, he found that the rest of the table wasn't having better luck. Bill was honest-to-goodness talking about the weather with Hermione, the group around Audrey and Andromeda were chatting about the upcoming holidays, and his dad and Angelina seemed to be gesturing wildly about the Tube.

His mum was AWOL, as was Ginny. The Weasley matriarch had been at dinner for longer than usual before having excused herself ten minutes ago. The family took cautious turns peeking in on both her and the group of children in the other room. As for Ginny, she hadn't shown up to a family dinner since Halloween. It reminded Ron of the days after Fred. Days? Weeks, months. It had been George rather than Ginny who had locked them out then, though his mum pretending not to cry was the same.

"Atrocious!" Percy huffed. Ron's fork played with the pasta, scooping marinara sauce idly. Hermione's fingers were drumming the table: she also wasn't eating. "Unsavoury, is what it is. Holding back this much product to dump on the market in one fell swoop? Right before the December rush, at that. The nerve!"

"Uh huh." This mattered why? Ron gazed enviously towards the conversation about the weather. "Isn't decreasing prices a good thing?"

"It's _artificially_ decreasing, and all at once." Percy was getting into the swing of his argument. His soup was furiously swooshed. "Phoenix tears are rare and coveted. But recently there's been enough to be used in beauty products, can you believe it! You should see the latest patents. It's affecting the balance of all potions ingredients!"

"Chill, brother of mine." George halted his rousing rave of barking fairy lights to poke the ruffled Percy. Ear waggled along with nose. "Sure, price gouging isn't fun. But that's an effect of good ol' competition. Brilliant, I think. Especially since phoenix feathers are also at an all-time low. Eh, still costs an arm and a leg to buy. But now you can at least find the rare blighters."

Percy spun around with such intensity that George jerked back from his gobsmacked older brother. "What! Feathers?"

"Yeah? They're fantastic for ton-tongue toffees. More effective than acromantula fur."

Ron gagged, aghast. "You put _what_ in the—"

"Feathers too?" Percy faintly spoke over him. "Oh, oh no. I've…excuse me, I need to call the potions union…don't even want to think about the inflation…"

With that, a quick kiss to Audrey, and an even quicker exit, the table was short another person.

Ron sighed and turned to his dad's and Angelina's resounding argument over the Circle Line, silently bemoaning that dinners had never been this boring when Harry had been present.

It was like Fred all over again.

* * *

 _Excerpt from 'The Quibbler':_

—the MLE aren't the only ones racing around in confusion over the Sweeney crisis. The _Daily Prophet_ can't tell fact from hurtful fiction! One day they're reporting that Harry Potter is fighting off a swarm of inferi, the next they're shouting that his head was found in Cornwall. Their 'alternative facts' are simply lies.

The tragic, bewildering truth is that no one knows Harry's status or location. I believe that the Ministry, far from being corrupt, are keeping quiet because this is rapidly turning into a cold case. My heart goes out to Harry and his suffering family, and I cannot wait to see my dear friend again. I can't say this will happen for certain, but if I've learned anything from him it's to trust the feeling deep down in my stomach…as well as the tittering wrackspurts in my ear.

Unlike the prestigious journals, I'm not claiming any supportive evidence to my belief. It is merely a wishful hope. But I do know one thing for sure: if Harry was here, he'd be raising hell over how you're treating his wife.

Ginny Potter is one of the most beautiful people I know (inside and out), and she has always treated the hurtful accusations that she was dosing or divorcing her husband with a stunning grace. But these latest cries against her? That she's a drug addict, an unfit mother, that she's uncaring or outright happy about Harry's disappearance? Everyone involved should be ashamed. Give her the privacy she's requesting—let her cope! Embrace her with love and support rather than spiteful rumours!

Every last one of us suffers in our own way. We have absolutely no right to judge others.

* * *

You're wonderful, Luna. I don't tell you that nearly enough.

I'm sorry I've been so absent lately, we haven't even celebrated your pregnancy! Lunch this weekend, how does that sound? I hope you don't mind muggle London. I just can't stand Diagon these days.

Love you, G

p.s. If the _Quibbler_ ever needs a Quidditch reporter, you know where to find me. I doubt my inane contract with the _Prophet_ will make it into the New Year.

* * *

It was Hermione who got through to Ginny by suggesting that she and the kids come over that weekend to decompress. This went nowhere, until the hinted reminder that her children needed to socialise and did Ginny want to risk any of them being scarred by this?

It was a low blow, but genius, and Ron had to give Hermione credit: it did partly jolt Ginny out of her hermit solitude. Luckily there was nothing to worry about with the Potter kids, James was animated enough while complaining about his owl pyjamas with Rose, and Al blabbered happily over his dinner. Ron was even fairly chipper afterwards, cozied under the blankets while his wife stretched out with an enormous yawn, a small smile also on her lips. Work had been less than productive, but there were semi-leads. He was looking forward to finally having a break this weekend and—hopefully—cornering his sister. He felt good about it all.

Naturally, that feeling didn't last long into the next morning.

"Wotcher."

Ron had never hidden a newspaper faster in his life, hurtling the thing under the table before looking up at his sister in all innocence. She (a dressing gown gathered around her prominent belly) wasn't having any of it.

" _The Prophet_?" Ginny helped herself to some eggs, sitting and not bothered at her brother's flushed look. "Course it is. You wouldn't have hidden _The Quibbler_ , Hermione wouldn't be caught dead with a subscription to _Witch Weekly_ , and you wouldn't have brought anything risqué to the kitchen table—least, I desperately hope not. Oh, don't look at me like that! What's the gossip? Am I a gold digger or a black widow?"

He closed his mouth, conscious he was gaping at her. He wished Hermione wasn't having a lie-in, or that there was at least one kid here as a distraction. "You shouldn't talk like that. Tell me you don't read this trash?"

"I have thick skin," Ginny deadpanned. "Goodness, not like I haven't heard it all by now. Have they decided how I murdered Harry? No no, let me guess. Poison. Or fiendfyre, perhaps. Choked him with my thighs?" She sniggered at the last. "Merlin knows I could do it with this bloated body. What a way to go, eh? Not sure he'd even complain about that!"

Ron let out a slow breath. He was glad she was looking at her breakfast rather than at him, as his horror at her words was surely obvious. "Blimey. It's, it's not healthy to say things like that."

She cast him a side-long look. "Why not? Everyone else is."

"They aren't! Of course they aren't." Anger bubbled in him. Not towards his sister, but bloody hell he was tired of being the voice of reason! "It's only some idiotic reporters and, _damn it_ , don't listen to a word they say. You hear me, Gin? They're nothing, absolutely nothing!"

"It's Ginny," she gave an aggrieved sigh, skipping over most of his statement.

"What!"

"My name's already a nickname, no sense in shortening it further. How many times do I have to tell you? Harry's the only one mad enough to call me 'Gin' and I want it to stay that way, thank you very much."

Ron stopped short, watching as Ginny humphed and poured a glass of milk. His sudden anger dwindled, leaving a hollow, empty feeling in its wake. "I'm, I'm sorry. I'll try not to call you that."

"Good. I've had enough 'gin and tonic' jokes to last me a lifetime!"

"Sure." Ron had long since abandoned his own breakfast. He had little appetite these days. "Ginny, that stuff you were saying? Nobody believes it. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with Harry's disappearance. Don't let these rubbish tabloids get to you."

* * *

"What if Harry was here?" When Hermione didn't immediately answer Ron continued, voice dull. "We'd have figured this out by now."

"We hadn't figured out the Sweenies with him. All of us together had months."

"It's different!" Ron slammed his hand against their dining room table, expression tightening. He gave a single thought about not letting Rose hear, but she was in the other room playing with Crookshanks. "I know it was bad before, alright? I know about the victims. But this is different! If one of us had been taken, Harry would've figured it out. You know it! We both know it! But here we are, it's bloody well December, _and we're clueless!_ "

A slow silence fell. Their marriage had never been this stifled. Anger or depression, he could handle. But uncertainty and guilt?

She stood, sweeping up the used dishes with a wave of her wand.

* * *

" _Expecto patronum_." The silver whiffs coalesced into a yipping terrier. Ron gave a faint smile at the sight, kneeling. "Can't tell me if these messages are being delivered, hmm?"

A bark.

"Fantastic." He should have chalked this up as a lost cause. But everything seemed to be that these days and when he saw this scampering dog he felt an edge of hope. "Hey Harry, still nothing great to say on this end. I'm back on the spree, though, so that's something.

"The press is being awful to Ginny. But it's more like a symptom of the actual problem. She's still acting all weird and cheerful, and the reporters view that as her being callous. Cruel. I'm more concerned she isn't taking any of this in. She loves you, which is what I meant to say. Don't mean to worry you, she and your kids will be safe. So will you. We're working on finding you, just hold on. I shouldn't have mentioned the press. It's only ruddy rumours.

"Other news! Percy has his head in a tizzy about some potions ingredients, George is dead-set on setting off more fireworks than ever, and Charlie's still in Britain. He claims it's because he can't stand Romania in the winter, but I doubt he can walk away while mum and Ginny are acting so weird." He let out a low breath. "Quidditch league is the Quidditch league, Bones is mental, and oh! Shacklebolt got reelected. Surprise, huh? There were no good opponents, what with you and Fudge who-knows-where. He almost got it by default. To show he's on your side, he cancelled the rest of the memorials apart from May 2nd. Said some boloney about how we shouldn't live in the past, but it was because his numbers are lousy."

"Yeah, back to what you actually care about. Teddy's driving his grandmum up the wall begging for a broom and James, bless him, is all set to 'imitate his big brother'. If Andromeda wasn't so concerned about Ginny, I think she'd have slapped her for laughing! Anyway, Al's drooling, Ginny's big as a house, Hermione's as gorgeous as ever, Crookshanks keeps shedding over the carpet, and my genius daughter won't stop asking where babies come from. Hermione told her some muggle thing about a stork, so I'm leaving it at that."

* * *

Ginny and her kids had finally shown up to a family dinner. Multiple cousins has shouted at the sight while Roxy had flat-out hugged Jamie (before racing him away to plot out something or other). Ginny had watched with a small smile, arms wrapped firmly around Albus.

Molly Weasley, overjoyed, had ushered her daughter to the table (tutting over how thin she was, the last stage of pregnancy aside). Ginny sat down and nodded along, picked at some rolls. Once everyone was seated and served she said that she had news. She was naming her daughter Lily. Lily Luna.

She'd announced this with a stubborn jilt to her jaw, her dinner mainly untouched (only on her plate because of the neighbouring, 'helpful' hands). Her proclamation and pointed stare over the mashed potatoes was a challenge for any to protest. As she tapped a steak knife against her plate, none were inclined to argue with her.

Ginny continued, her pleasant tone having an underlying stubbornness. Said she'd always liked alliteration and, even better, wanted to honour her mother-in-law and one of her best friends. She said it was a beautiful name. She said Harry would have to bloody well get over it when he came back.

None of them protested. No one felt they had the right (no one was brave enough to go up against an irritated Ginny, not when she wielded a knife as well as a wand). Hermione did open her mouth for a heartbeat, but kept silent when Ron placed a hand on hers and sent her an appeasing look.

Ron felt that only his parents had a chance to convince Ginny otherwise, but his mum was crying and his dad was hugging her. He wasn't sure if it was good or bad tears, or if his mum even wanted to protest the name. Maybe she thought it was nice. Maybe with everything else going on, she hadn't known about the Potters' disagreement over what to call their daughter. From everyone else's stricken faces, they had heard about the fiasco.

Fleur saved them from the awkwardness, being the quickest to transform her questioning frown into a beam. Her exclamation of, "Adorable! A belle flower iz perfect for a little baby," was frantically grabbed onto and repeated in one form or another by the rest of the family. Even Hermione, albeit reluctantly, gave a teary smile. Ron thought his own forced grin was a touch too wide, but it didn't matter.

All of them skirted around the meaning of the first name. Or how Harry had argued so vehemently against it.

'Merlin,' Ron sighed to himself as the dinner gave way to a slightly less awkward dessert, thanks to Teddy turning into a chortling canary after George switched out the custards. 'Harry will kill us for not stopping her.'

* * *

" _Expecto patronum_." The terrier happily barked and nuzzled his leg while Ron opened and closed his mouth. Bit his lip. "This is for Harry. Surprise surprise, like all the rest. Right. Harry, I…Ginny, she…you might've lost track of the date, but it's the 5th of December. Ginny's very pregnant and the hormones have gone to her head. About your daughter? This, I mean, she sort of…"

He let out a long _whoosh_ , leaning against his desk. The house around him was quiet and dark, with his daughter tucked in the nursery and his wife surely rolling in a restless sleep.

"…it's fine, they're all fine, don't worry. We love you, mate. Come home soon." _  
_


End file.
